Trouble & Strife
by 1Scarylady
Summary: The Blight is over; Melissa Cousland to be entombed at Weisshaupt. King Alistair must go to Orlais and select a bride of Imperial blood, while in Ferelden the Chantry has plans of its own. A tale of fluffy romance and unfluffy politics. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_-oOo-_

"Absolutely not!" Alistair's hand slashed down in an emphatic gesture.

Arl Eamon sighed and folded his hands on the desk. "Alistair, it's your duty to marry and produce an heir. You know this."

"I was only crowned a month ago. She only d… "Eamon saw Alistair's mouth shut tight around the grief; the young king swung round and strode to the window, struggling visibly to regain control of his emotions. He stared blankly out over the courtyard, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. "The funeral procession won't even have passed out of Ferelden yet, and you expect me to court a bride?"

For a moment the Arl was tempted to give in, to give the lad more time. He squashed the impulse; Ferelden needed stability, and after the events of the last two years it was going to take more than a glittering coronation to provide it.

"Alistair, no-one is expecting you to get married immediately. The arrangements will take time; a suitable bride must be found, agreements drawn up with her family, and this is before we even begin to plan the actual celebrations. I would anticipate that a royal wedding could take a year or more to bring to a conclusion." Eamon carefully kept his voice neutral, he knew the boy could be led but not driven. "All I am asking for is permission to begin the process of finding you a suitable queen."

Alistair's rigid posture slumped slightly. Without turning from the window the king conceded the argument. "Do as you must."

"Very well then, I will write to our ambassador in Orlais asking for his initial assessment of the most likely candidates."

Alistair swung round to face Eamon, clearly astonished by this development. "Orlais? Why not seek a Ferelden girl?"

Not for the first time Eamon regretted Maric's decision to hide Alistair from public scrutiny. The boy was a political innocent. If Maric had allowed his son to be fostered by a noble, as befitted a royal bastard, then his upbringing would have given him some exposure to the polite, subtle,_ vicious_ world he now stood at the centre of. "Highever's line is in ruins, Gwaren's is ended," he explained patiently. "The Arlings have no suitable females to offer – Denerim's line is wiped out, Amaranthine given to the Wardens, and although I dearly wish I had a daughter to offer to you, I do not."

"What of the Bannorn? Surely _some_ of them must have sisters or daughters."

Eamon was shocked. "Alistair, you are the King of Ferelden. If you had a desire for a particular noble lady it might be possible to accommodate it, but we won't look for an arranged marriage for you among the Bannorn. There is no advantage to be gained from it."

Alistair grimaced distastefully. "Advantage... so, am I to be sold to the highest bidder?"

"Nothing so vulgar; if that was the intention, then I would be approaching Antiva and Rivain also." He saw Alistair wince at the brutal statement, but steeled himself against it. If the new king was to survive court politics he must begin to develop a thicker skin. Although he cared for the boy a great deal he could not afford to coddle him. "No, the intention is to try to undo the damage Loghain caused to our relations with Orlais during the Blight. We are the only country to have been heavily affected by this Blight, and it will take time for us to become strong again. We cannot afford for our nearest neighbour to perceive us as their enemy at this time."

"Oh… yes, I see what you mean" Alistair's posture relaxed a little more although the frown marring his face displayed his dislike of the entire subject. He picked up an ornamental dagger from the desk and turned it restlessly between his hands.

Eamon pressed his advantage. "Taking as your queen the daughter of a high born noble, one who is in favour with the Empress or, even better, a relative of the Empress herself, will offer us additional security at a time when we desperately need it."

He left his seat and walked quietly over to the man who stood scowling ferociously down at the inoffensive ornament he held. The hand he placed on Alistair's arm was tentative, and his tone a little gentler than before. "I'm sorry, my boy, I know this is hard for you. Please believe that if I could spare you this then I would, but I can't."

Alistair took a deep breath, released it and rolled his shoulders to try to ease some tension. He put the dagger down gently, looked up at Eamon and made a poor attempt at a rueful smile. "I was always going to have to do this Eamon, I knew that. Melissa and I…" He choked and looked down again. "Well, as you know two Wardens can't make an heir. Neither of us expected to be able to marry." Alistair's anguish was etched in his face. "But, this whole thing, being king I mean, I never thought I'd have to do it without her." He straightened and his face closed up tight. "Enough, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I need to hit something; I'm going down to the training ground."

"Very well, I will see you at dinner no doubt." Eamon bowed and watched his king bolt from the chamber as though a pack of mabari pursued him. He sighed and spoke aloud to the empty room. "Well, that went better than I expected."

_-oOo-_

_Smash - shield to the face. Swipe - sword to the exposed body. Slice - shield cut downwards to stun. Assault - triple sword swing to finish._

Sweat was dripping off him, his shoulders burned and the training dummy was definitely looking worse for wear.

_Smash, swipe, slice, assault._

Two decisions she had left him to make. In the whole time they fought the Blight, two decisions.

_Smash, swipe, slice, assault._

Decision One_: Yes, I __**will**__ be King_

_Smash, swipe_

Decision Two: _No, I __**will not**__ impregnate The Witch._

_Slice, assault._

Two decisions had been enough to kill her.

_Smash_

_It's all my fault_

_Swipe_

_I killed her_

_Slice_

_It should have been me. Merciful Maker why wasn't it me?_

He scowled and threw down his sword. It hadn't been him because she had made damn sure it couldn't be; had given him a direct order to stay with the defence at the gates.

"_You have to be king_," she'd said_. _His last sight of her living face had been of determined resignation. "W_e both know how this has to end."_

He unbuckled his shield, stripped off his gauntlets and slumped down on a fence rail to mop his streaming face with a cloth. If there was more than sweat being wiped away, anyone watching could not know. _And now I have to marry some snooty Orlesian noblewoman; someone who will look down her nose at the poor muddy little country offering her a crown. And also at the poor muddy little king no doubt._

He groaned at the hideous mental image, stood and slowly gathered up his gear to take back to the armoury. A squire tried to take it from him; he shook his head, waved the boy away and set off back to the palace.

_It should have been me._

_-oOo-_

"_Pardon_, Mademoiselle. Her Highness requests your presence in the Blue Salon."

Henriette looked up apprehensively at the footman, soft grey eyes wide with alarm. "Mama? She…she wants to see me?" She hurried to set aside her needlework, stood and smoothed her dress and her pale hair with nervous hands. "I'll come at once."

She followed the servant out of the sunny sitting-room and through the marble-clad halls. As they walked she sifted through the events of the last few days, trying to establish what fault or omission on her part could have instigated this summons. Her days were circumscribed, her pursuits unexceptionable; her only guilty pleasure was the time she spent in the palace chantry poring over the ancient and beautiful copies of the Chant her family was fortunate enough to own. _Sacre Coeur d'Andraste, please do not let Mama have discovered the secret of my heart. _Her blood ran cold at this idea; her Imperial Highness Violetta, Princesse d'Arlesans, sister to the Imperial Empress herself, would not look kindly on such a lowly ambition for any of her children.

Ahead of her now were the imposing doors to the Blue Salon, her mother's preferred receiving room for informal occasions when only family was in residence. The footman opened the door, entering the room to announce her. "Mademoiselle Henriette is here to see you, as you requested, Your Highness"

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Henriette stranded on what felt like an ocean of expensive pale blue carpet. She set off towards an island in the centre of the room, where her mother sat bolt upright on one of several uncomfortable-looking couches, her eyes on a letter held in one exquisitely manicured hand.

Henriette kept her eyes lowered and her hands clasped in front of her. "You wished to see me, Mama?"

Princesse Violetta looked her daughter over and managed a thin smile. "Yes, sit down, child."

She seated herself on the edge of a couch opposite her mother and tried not to fidget. Her mother appeared quite pleased about something, and this made her even more nervous.

"I have received a letter from my dearest sister Celene requesting our presence at her Court in Val Royeaux in the spring. She has foreign dignitaries attending for the Rite of Spring and wishes us to assist with their entertainment."

"_Our _presence, Mama?" asked Henriette in confusion. It was not unheard of for her mother to attend the Empress at Court, but the invitation had never before been extended to her. _There are always foreign dignitaries at Court_, she thought perplexed, _why would the Empress want... oh. Oh, no. _

Her blush betrayed her and her mother offered her an uncharacteristically fond smile. "I see you have divined the reason for yourself. Dearest Celene is entertaining a delegation from Ferelden, including their ruler, King Alistair."

She looked for a moment as though she had tasted something disagreeable, "A backward country I believe, and by all accounts the new king is illegitimate. However, it pleases our Empress to offer him all the entertainments befitting a royal visit and it seems that Celene is desirous of arranging a bride of the Imperial blood for him."

Her pleasure at the prospect of ingratiating herself with the Empress was apparent and her gaze hardened somewhat as it travelled over her daughter. "I understand that several members of the family are invited to bring their offspring to meet the Ferelden King and his retinue. It is my wish that you do everything necessary to ensure that you are the one who meets with the approval of this King Alistair. This alliance would bring us great favour with the Empress and I shall be extremely displeased if it does not occur. Is that understood Henriette?"

Henriette kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Yes, Mama"

"Good. I will have my Dresser inspect your wardrobe and ensure that all the necessary new clothes are arranged in good time for our departure. You are dismissed"

Henriette rose, curtsied and made her way back across the blue ocean to the door. She let herself out quietly, walked sedately up the staircase and traversed the several corridors required to reach her own room. She turned the handle, entered the room, closed the door with a quiet click and promptly dissolved into a weeping puddle of misery.

_-oOo-_

Her Imperial Highness Odette, Princesse de Val Chevin was disturbed at her morning toilette by strident shrieks emanating from the quarters of her daughter Eloise. Her face powder fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and she muttered, "Oh Maker, what now?"

The shrieks were followed by crashes horridly reminiscent of breaking china. Her superior dresser Mlle Valard moved with stately dignity to close the two intervening doors. Her disapproving posture made plain her opinion of such an unseemly interruption. Peace descended, and Odette gave herself over to the expert ministrations of this Genius who presided over her clothes and hair.

Before her nerves could even begin to recover, the peaceful interlude was shattered by the tempestuous entry of her daughter, blue eyes flashing with fury. "Mama! You will not believe what that… that _salope_ has done!"

Odette gestured hurriedly to Mlle Valard to leave the room. She well knew that, when in a temper, Eloise could not be relied upon to be at all discreet.

Only once the door had safely closed behind the servant did Odette speak, picking with fretful fingers at the fringe of her shawl. "Really, dearest, you should moderate your language. I do wish you could show some regard for my poor nerves. With all this noise before breakfast, I swear I shall not be able to eat so much as a morsel."

"At a time like this you speak of food?" Eloise moved from tempestuous to something approaching incandescent and her mother shrank in her seat. "I am to be hauled away by some _barbarian_ and you can only think of your _breakfast_?"

"Hauled away?" said Odette, a vague frown furrowing her brow. "No dear, I'm sure that can't be right, the palace guards would prevent it for certain. Where did you get such an absurd notion?"

"From my dear, darling Aunt Celene, may her poisonous soul fester in the Black City for eternity," raged Eloise.

Odette gave a nervous start and her eyes shifted to the wall then the window. She made a feeble and fruitless attempt to shush her daughter. "Dearest you really shouldn't say such things, it isn't _safe_. Certainly not right here in the Empress' own palace."

"I don't care. She's sending me to_ rot_ in some mud-ball backwater with a man who probably still eats with his _knife_. Why would she do such a thing? I've been one of her closest companions for _years_."

Over the next half an hour, with much ranting from Eloise and feeble protestations from Odette, the whole story emerged. Despite the fact that Eloise was one of Empress Celene's noble Ladies-in-Waiting, and had enjoyed her favour for some considerable time, she was apparently now expected to entertain the King of Ferelden with a view to potentially becoming his bride. As both Eloise and Odette enjoyed a substantial suite of rooms in the Imperial Palace, and detested provincial life in all its forms, they were in agreement that this was a disaster.

"But my dearest, what can you possibly have done to have earned the Empress' displeasure?" moaned Odette. _I'll have to move back to Val Chevin_, she thought, _I can't bear it._

Eloise flushed and some of her anger drained away. "Well… I made the mistake of wearing the same colour as the Empress at her rout last week, perhaps that upset her."

"That_ is_ very bad of course, but is it enough to merit such a dire punishment?" Her daughter's sudden cessation of hostilities made Odette instantly suspicious. "There is something more isn't there? Something terrible; quick, tell me."

Eloise shrugged and turned to face the window, giving her mother a charming view of her slim figure, long neck and elaborately dressed black hair silhouetted in the morning sunlight. "Well," she began with a fine show of carelessness, "it _might_ be because of Raoul..."

"_What_!" screeched her mother, "The Empress' favourite? Are you out of your mind?" Her nerves, her breakfast, all were forgotten in the face of such monumental idiocy. "This isn't a punishment! This is our dearest Empress offering you a chance to save face, you stupid girl. Oh my, I cannot thank dear, dear Celene enough for her leniency. If she was punishing you then we would already be on our way back to Val Chevin… or I would be at least. You on the other hand, would be lucky to still live."

Imperial Princesse Odette gathered up her frayed nerves and tattered dignity, stood and tottered to the window. Her entire lifestyle was at risk and she would not go down without a fight. She seized Eloise and swung her round, selfish determination giving her plump foolish face unexpected strength. "Young lady, you will make every effort to engage this Ferelden King. Then, Maker willing, perhaps our dearest Empress may still forgive _me_ and allow me to remain here at Court."

_-oOo-_

Her Imperial Highness Madeleina, Princesse de Ghislain, youngest sister of Empress Celene, sat in the crook of her favourite tree, legs dangling and frowned thoughtfully at the immaculate garden below. _More Agapanthus and less Achillea,_ she decided finally, _the Achillea is getting pushy. I'll need to get it done before the ground goes colder. _She affectionately patted the bark of the magnificent oak, tucked her legs up and got comfortable. Despite the lateness of the season it was too hot today to actually put her decision into action, snoozing in the shade seemed a much better idea.

Time passed peacefully until a rude interruption came from the ground below.

"Maddy?"

"Hmm?" Madeleina stretched, yawned and peered down to where her brother Philippe stood frowning up at her, apparent displeasure belied by his mocking blue eyes. The sunlight gleamed on auburn hair and smooth pale skin so perfectly shaved it almost appeared as though he was a boy who had not yet got his beard growth. Her brother was an almost impossibly handsome man and the despair of all the noble ladies in the district.

"Lazing the day away, _ma_ _chérie_? Bestir yourself, I have news for you." He waved a letter, apparently hoping it would entice her.

Green eyes narrowed in amusement in a pixie face, tanned nut brown and dusted with freckles. "I doubt it's anything exciting. What's in it for me?" She began stripping a handful of acorns off the branch next to her, feigning total disinterest in her brother and all he may have to say.

Philippe put his hand on his heart with a look of despair. "Alas, if only I had leaves or petals I'm sure that you would grant me the filial devotion I crave."

A firm nod from above confirmed his view. "You can have some acorns, if that helps," she offered, dropped them on him, one by one.

"Ouch! That one hit me! Stop funning Maddy and come down. I have a letter from Celene, she wants us to go to Val Royeaux in the spring."

There was silence from above, followed by slithering sounds. Madeleina slid to the ground, dusted off her hands and said ominously, "Oh? And pray why?" She barely knew her elder sister, who had seized the throne when Madeleina was still in the schoolroom.

Philippe spent a moment picking twigs and leaves out of his sister's tangled waves of long brown hair, avoiding her eyes. He sighed and finally gave her a direct look. "You know why. You and I are the only ones of our generation who remain unwed. She was bound to cast her eyes towards us sooner or later."

Madeleina perceived a faint ray of hope and pursued it. "So which reigning toast of the Imperial Court is she hoping to attach you to?"

"Ah, I am spared on this occasion. Sorry _ma_ _chérie_, it's you she has her hooks in."

"Why would she take an interest now? She's never bothered about me before."

"Politics, of course; the King of Ferelden seeks a bride and only one of Imperial blood will suffice apparently. Take heart though. I hear Violetta and Odette's daughters are also in the running. If you don't want the match you just need to run the slowest." He gave a wicked grin, but with a great deal of sympathy lurking in his vivid blue eyes.

"Ferelden?" Madeleina made a moue of disgust and added cryptically, "Acid clay and too much rain."

Philippe had no apparent difficulty interpreting this statement and looked deeply amused. "There's more to life than horticulture, my dear one. I'm told that this King Alistair is young, outrageously handsome and a fearsome warrior, and by that I mean _muscular. _And also a Grey Warden; I can't imagine why they stuck one of those on the throne but…" He shrugged to indicate the impossibility of deciphering the non-Orlesian mind.

Madeleina was patently unimpressed. "If you think he's so great, you marry him."

The unholy glint in her brother's eyes spoke volumes about why he yet remained unwed.

_-oOo-_

Alistair looked up from his correspondence as Arl Eamon entered his study. "Good morning Eamon, I hope you slept well?"

"Yes, thank you. Did you?" Eamon doubted it; the king looked as drawn and tired as always.

"Um, some I guess. I've been catching up on paperwork; it piled up while we were in the Bannorn."

Alistair fished a letter out of the heap on his desk. "I have received a disturbing letter from Warden Commander Leonie at Vigil's Keep. She tells me that the Chantry made an attack against a Grey Warden mage. The templars claimed that he was an apostate and that the Chantry would not allow him to…" he skimmed the letter looking for the correct phrase, "…hide in the Grey Wardens."

Eamon took the proffered letter but made no immediate move to read it. "Surely this incident is between the Wardens and the Chantry. Why is she approaching the Crown with this matter?"

"I was present when the mage, Anders, was conscripted and I specifically told the templar who was attempting to take him into custody that I would permit his conscription. Commander Leonie states that, according to the templars who attacked the group of Wardens, the authority of the Chantry supersedes the Crown in this matter." Alistair drummed his fingers on the desk, looking annoyed. "I can't say I'm very happy about that suggestion either as a King or as a Warden. As I understand it, once a mage becomes a Grey Warden they are no longer subject to Chantry control. I will not tolerate the Chantry operating under the mistaken belief that the Right of Conscription, gifted to the Wardens by the Crown, is something that they can set aside when it suits them to do so."

Eamon handed back the letter. He was pleased to see the king so decisive; he had made a great deal of progress in the last seven months or so. However, he would have preferred this determination to be applied to a less touchy subject. "Perhaps we can take it up with the Revered Mother, but I would advise you to tread carefully Alistair, the Chantry is a powerful force, as you know."

Alistair grinned ruefully, "Funnily enough, I do realise that. It may have something to do with spending several of the dullest years of my life under their thumb. Nevertheless they are bang out of order this time; but I'll make sure that my suggestion is merely that the templars concerned were rogue rather than upholding the actual views of the Chantry." He shrugged. "It might even be true."

The King yawned and stretched. "Anyway, I assume you came to see me for some reason of your own, not to hear me prattle on about wardens and templars. What do you need?"

"I have received a letter from our ambassador in Orlais, enclosed with it is a note addressed to you sealed with the Imperial crest." Eamon passed it over to Alistair, who took it and turned it over in his hands looking a little panicky.

"Is this…?

"From what the ambassador tells me I expect so. Open it and see."

Alistair broke the seal and unfolded the thick embossed parchment. He ran his eye down it and threw it on the desk. "Her Imperial Majesty Celene cordially invites me to attend the celebrations in Val Royeaux for the Rite of Spring." He folded his arms and set his jaw against the rebellion rising within. "Which means what, exactly?"

"According to Ambassador Cameron, the Empress has also specifically requested the presence of several young ladies of the Imperial family at the Rite of Spring celebrations. This is more than I had hoped for Alistair; not only is she implying that she would be happy to see you allied to a member of her family, it seems you also may have the luxury of choosing from a number of eligible young ladies."

"Lucky me," said Alistair sourly

Faced with the Arl's reproachful expression he quickly relented. "I know, I know. Sorry, I'll try not to be childish about this." He tapped his finger on the invitation. "I assume we will be taking a full entourage on this junket?"

"Yes, of course. The Empress will expect us to turn up in style and will make suitable accommodations available."

"In that case, I want Leliana to go with us. If I'm to be thrown to the Imperial wolves I want someone there who knows the Court, and that I am certain I can trust."

Eamon frowned. "Leliana? Alistair, I know she's a friend of yours, but I fail to see how a Chantry lay sister, a minstrel or an archer can help you even if she _is_ Orlesian."

A mischievous grin smeared itself across Alistair's face. "Did I never tell you? Sorry, I thought you knew. Leliana used to be a full-blown Orlesian bard; it was kept quiet because it was her wish, but in this situation she's the most useful person we could have with us."

"Oh." Eamon did not appear terribly happy to have had this information withheld. "Then I shall enquire as to her whereabouts and send a letter summoning her to attend you here in Denerim. Hopefully she will receive it in time"

"Not a summons, Eamon," exclaimed Alistair horrified. "She's a friend and I need her help. Maker's Breath, let's make it a simple request shall we?"

_-oOo-_

Leliana was having just the _best _time.

Alistair's note had caught her in Amaranthine where she was hanging out with the Wardens after one of her periodic Deep Roads fact-finding missions. She set off for Denerim immediately, curious to know what had got Alistair in such a flap and arrived there shortly before the mid-winter celebrations.

The fun started when she flung herself into his arms and kissed him soundly in front of his advisors. Making Alistair blush and stammer had always been one of her favourite games. His babbled protests were fun too, but things got even better once he ushered all the grimly disapproving men from the room and told her what was in the wind.

Orlais in spring! Balls, routs, and Court politics! Dresses and shoes! Alistair had laughed at her and said that only mice should squeak when they are excited. Oh, but it was going to be such fun…

_-oOo-_

Alistair was wondering what he had got himself into. Leliana was practically bouncing up and down in her seat, ticking off on her fingers a whole list of things he _really_ didn't want.

"There is so much to do before we can leave, we must begin immediately. Alistair, you must have a whole new wardrobe of course; your Ferelden doublets and hose will not do for the Imperial Court, they would be considered plain and shabby and you must be every inch a King."

"Um, some of my clothes are quite nice..."

"You must have Grand Ball dress and fine dancing slippers, which goes without saying."

"Does it? Because I don't think it does go without saying, and... erm… Leliana…"

"Do you have a good valet? Care of your clothes will be essential, you can be sure that a crushed shirt will instantly be noticed."

"Leliana?"

"Yes Alistair, what is the matter?"

"I... er... can't dance."

"Can't _dance_? Maker's breath, we must find a dancing master at once!"

_-oOo-_


	2. Chapter 2

_-oOo-_

The last 3 months had been hideous beyond belief. Tailors, shoemakers, dancing masters, lessons in the more extreme forms of Court etiquette (and Maker help anyone who ever dared suggest instituting any of that nonsense at _his_ Court), and of course all the usual day to day running of an entire country, which by rights should be receiving _all_ of his attention.

All this followed by several days on a ship in dreadful weather. In order to get to Orlais in time for the Rite of Spring, they had been forced to take one of the first ships to make the run after winter ended. Alistair winced at the memory. Thank the Maker he hadn't been seasick, but it seemed at times that he was the only one. With a full complement of the King's Own Guards and servants, all throwing their guts up, things had got messy, smelly and downright ugly.

After that, it came as rather a shock to the system to be installed in a set of apartments in the Imperial palace that the word 'sumptuous' didn't even begin to describe.

He'd attended a formal presentation with the Empress, and felt he'd brushed through it fairly well on the whole, and hadn't looked _too_ provincial. The woman was _incredibly_ regal (Anora would have given her eye-teeth to have that bearing and manner), and beautiful in a cold, emotionless, utterly terrifying kind of way. He felt a reluctant respect for Cailan for even _considering_ making a marriage alliance with her.

There had been a sticky moment when one of the courtiers tried to denounce Leliana as a traitor and have her arrested; for one horrible moment years of training had taken over, and he had instinctively reached for a sword that wasn't there. Fortunately Eamon had stepped in and made it clear that Leliana was by birth a Ferelden citizen, and now a Royal Advisor, and causing an incident would be a Bad Thing.

Now, Alistair stood at the head of a huge sweeping staircase, wearing clothes finer and more elaborate than any he had ever owned, groomed to within an inch of his life, and desperately wishing he was elsewhere. As the guest of honour at the Spring Ball, he apparently had to stand here and have the guests presented to him as they arrived.

His face hurt from smiling. And he was running out of compliments.

_-oOo-_

"Her Imperial Highness Princesse Violetta and Mademoiselle Henriette d'Arlesans," intoned the herald.

Alistair found himself faced with a dowager in an imposing turban with the haughtiest mien and coldest eyes he'd yet seen, and a pale slender and immaculate blonde girl who had not yet raised her eyes from the floor. He felt a pinch on the back of his arm; the signal from Leliana which meant that this was one of what Eamon kept calling 'the Candidates'.

He remembered to bow first to the older woman, who swept a flawless curtsy, and held out her hand with a smile that in no way reached her eyes. He took the tips of her fingers in his as he had been taught and barely brushed her glove with his lips before releasing it_. I think I'd rather kiss a darkspawn,_ flitted through his mind. For some reason, this woman was giving him the heebies.

"Your Majesty, such a pleasure to meet you. May I present my daughter, Henriette."

_-oOo-_

Henriette sunk into the deep curtsy suitable for greeting a King, and as she rose and extended her hand, she finally dared to peep up at him. Warm brown eyes, and an even warmer smile, greeted her, and she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. Her mother had ensured she was briefed with all the snippets of information concerning this King that their contacts could provide, but no-one had seen fit to mention that he looked _kind_. The sweetness of his smile gave her the courage to murmur a greeting as he brought her hand to his lips.

"I'm very pleased to meet you my lady. I hope to have an opportunity to speak further with you later."

His accent sounded so strange, but his voice was pleasant and soothing to her overwrought nerves. She gave him a shy smile and said softly, "I would like that Your Majesty." She was surprised to find that she even meant it, a little.

_-oOo-_

Alistair presented his compliments to the scary turban on the loveliness of her daughter, and the two of them moved on. _The poor girl looked terrified,_ he thought, as he prepared to smile and make pointless remarks to a Comte and Comtesse. _Although, it's_ _hardly surprising with a mother like that. To find out what she's really like, I need to work out a way to separate her from the Dragon._

Bow, smile, compliment.

Bow, smile, compliment.

The next pinch to his arm came as an extremely handsome, and beautifully dressed, young man approached up the stairs with a petite brown-haired girl at his side.

"His Imperial Highness, Prince Philippe and Her Imperial Highness, Princesse Madeleina," the herald intoned.

_No shrinking violet this one, _thought Alistair. Her head was up and she looked around with no trace of self-consciousness in her green eyes. She prepared to ascend the final stair to the hallway where he stood and caught her heel in her skirt, crashing to her hands and knees on the marble floor in front of him.

"_Merde_!" she exclaimed explosively, and stunned silence spread out around them…

_-oOo-_

Madeleina was having the worst day of her life. She'd been forced to sleep in gloves for a week, while some special lotion attempted to overcome the ravages of years of gardening. Her face had repeatedly been covered in what appeared to be the crushed contents of an entire fruit basket, in a futile attempt to eliminate her suntan and freckles. She had been prinked and preened and pulled about until she could no longer endure it. Her hair had taken _hours_, and it felt like every single pin was driven directly into her scalp. Her shoes pinched and had high heels, which she hated.

And now she had caught her stupid high heel in this ridiculous lace petticoat. With both hands and her right knee stinging from the impact, she had sworn out of sheer, unbridled frustration.

Her brother immediately moved to help her, saying, "Maddy, are you alright?" but the King was nearer and quicker.

Large hands gripped her arms and hauled her to her feet. "Are you hurt?" he asked, and without any preamble he stripped off her gloves to inspect her hands.

Definitely not a subtle man; any Orlesian noble would have proffered his arm to support her in rising, not hauled her upright like a fallen toddler.

"I'm fine really," she answered, as capable, calloused fingers checked gently for broken bones. _Philippe said he was a warrior, so of course he would know about injuries. _

"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty, about…" She broke off, not at all sure how to politely say, "_Sorry I fell at your feet and said shit at an Imperial Ball, Your Majesty_"

"Hey, it was an accident; I'm actually surprised it happened to someone other than me. Just so long as you're not hurt, that's the main thing." He finished his inspection and gave his diagnosis. "No bones broken, I think, but you'll be bruised tomorrow."

_Best not mention my knee,_ thought Madeleina hysterically, trying to push away the irresistibly amusing image of this surprising monarch plonking her on the steps like a child and solemnly inspecting her leg. She bit her lip and tried to suppress her shaking shoulders.

He relinquished her hands and took a step back. She looked up and saw him properly and whole for the first time; tall and broad, golden skin, short, dark blonde hair, eyes somewhere between green and brown. _Like sphagnum moss_, she thought inconsequentially_._

King Alistair smiled warmly at her, his eyes dancing with mischief and stuck out his hand. "As we appear to have dispensed with formality - pleased to meet you, I'm Alistair."

She took his hand with no hesitation and shook it firmly. "Hello Alistair, I'm Maddy… Madeleina," she corrected herself. _Now why did I say that, only Philippe calls me Maddy._

Alistair turned to Philippe, who had been watching this exchange with obvious interest, and offered him a similarly warm greeting. She saw her usually urbane brother flush slightly as he took the King's hand, and her lips twitched.

There was movement behind the King and he leant back while someone murmured in his ear. He looked down at Madeleina's feet and nodded in apparent agreement. "Your," he waved his hand vaguely at her skirt, "lace is torn." Maddy looked down and saw a swathe of petticoat hanging below her dress. Alistair was flushing, seeming uncomfortable at having to point this out. "My advisor Leliana will escort you to one of the… um… ladies retiring rooms and assist you in… er… sorting it out."

A beautiful red haired woman stepped out from behind King Alistair and introduced herself with an open friendly smile. "I am Leliana and I'm very happy to meet you Your Highness. I know of a room well supplied with pins and thread and I'm sure we can fix that up in a trice. Shall we?" Leliana linked her arm through Maddy's and bore her off.

_-oOo-_

_Well, that was… different_, thought Alistair, as Philippe bowed and thanked him and also moved on. _It was kind of a relief to just be me for a few minutes, instead of a Kingly exhibit. _

Bow, smile, compliment.

Bow, smile, compliment.

After some time, the stream of guests thinned out to stragglers, and Alistair was considering making his own way into the ballroom, when a Vision glided up the stairs towards him and coherent thought ended abruptly.

_Wow_.

She was tall, slender and radiantly beautiful. Black hair piled high, bright blue eyes, long neck and creamy skin.

_Wow_.

He was vaguely aware of the herald introducing both her and the dumpy overdressed woman at her side, and remembered the name Eloise from Eamon's briefing that afternoon.

_Merciful Andraste, she's a Candidate._

He blushed and dragged his eyes from her to bow over her companion's hand. Fortunately she wasted no time in presenting her daughter, and he turned back to Eloise as if pulled on a string.

She rose from her curtsy and proffered her hand with a sweet and beautiful smile, wide blue eyes gazing into his.

_Wow._

Alistair stumbled over his words as he paid her the required compliment. He truly couldn't think of anything to do her justice, and it seemed so _hot_ in here. He realised just in time that he didn't have to let her pass him by; he had been about to go into the ball right?

"Would you… um… do me the honour of granting me your first dance?"

"The honour would be mine, Your Majesty." She smiled dazzlingly at him and laid her fingers on his arm.

They floated into the ballroom.

_-oOo-_

Leliana steered Maddy to a retiring room designed for ladies to repair their hair, loosen clothes if they felt faint, or pin up hems mangled by overenthusiastic dancers. There was a maid on duty there, but Leliana waved her out and said she could manage just fine by herself.

Maddy was therefore free to indulge her curiosity. "You are Orlesian, Leliana; may I ask how you came to be an advisor to the Ferelden Crown?"

She waited a moment, while Leliana secured a section of petticoat and removed the remaining pins from her mouth.

Leliana sat back on her heels, looked up and smiled. "Actually I am Ferelden by birth, but lived most of my life in Orlais. This is not a permanent appointment, Your Highness. I have known Alistair for a long time, and he asked for me to accompany him here to help him in a country he finds a little strange and unknown. I am an official advisor only while we are in Orlais."

Her smile became a little wistful. "I was glad to come not only because Alistair is a good friend. I have missed Val Royeaux very much, and to wear proper dresses and shoes again is an enormous treat."

"The ladies in Ferelden don't wear dresses?"

"Oh, the court ladies do, although nothing as fine as in Orlais. But I spend a lot of time in the Deep Roads tracking darkspawn, and there one needs armour and clumsy boots, of course."

"You track darkspawn?" Maddy was astounded; Leliana looked so pretty and delicate and not at all like a warrior. "So are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"No, not a Warden, but I fought a lot of darkspawn during the Blight travelling with Alistair and…" Leliana looked grieved, stumbled briefly and recovered, "and Melissa, so now I collate information on them. Very little is known about darkspawn, and Alistair wanted that to be corrected."

"Melissa Cousland, the Hero of the Blight?" There was far more to this Leliana than met the eye. "You… you were one of the Blight Companions," she said, rather awed. _And so was Alistair_, she reminded herself. She had heard the stories - they were the last two Grey Wardens in the land, and the Hero had made him King before ending the Blight - but it was different to actually meet them.

Leliana smiled reminiscently, and then bent down to carry on pinning. "That sounds far grander than it was. We were cold, and filthy, and in fear for our lives most of the time." she gave an unexpected giggle. "_Especially_ if Alistair was cooking. But I would not have missed it for the world, it was a great adventure."

There was silence for a while, as Madeleina digested this and Leliana industriously pinned until Maddy's train of thought led to another question. "So, is Ferelden much less formal than Orlais?"

"Oh, much less; the Ferelden nobles believe their Court and their Landsmeets are formal, but it is very easy-going compared to here."

Leliana finished her task and sat back to inspect her handiwork. Without raising her eyes she asked, "Do you like the Imperial Court, Your Highness?"

Maddy shook her head emphatically. "No it's horrible. It's all pointless ceremonies, scratchy clothes and foul gossip. A lot of my family live here, but Philippe and I come only when we have to. And don't call me 'Your Highness' Leliana, my name is Madeleina, or Maddy if you prefer."

_As I seem to be handing out my pet name to these Fereldens, I may as well go the whole hog._

Leliana sprang to her feet with all the grace of a hunting cat and in that moment Maddy saw the accomplished scout hiding behind the fine clothes. "Could you walk around for me, please, Maddy? To make sure the pins are secure."

Maddy complied, turning away from her and trying not to stick her heel in the hem again. When Leliana's voice spoke again it sounded oddly bland. "Alistair would agree with you about Court. He says formal occasions drive him insane and only holds the ones his advisors tell him are absolutely necessary."

Maddy turned to face her with a frown, wondering exactly what the King's Advisor had been trying to glean from her, but Leliana's clear blue eyes were as open and innocent as a child's.

_-oOo-_

Leliana escorted Madeleina safely back to her brother and left them to their own devices for the moment. Maddy had, rather shyly, invited her to their apartment tomorrow morning to drink _chocolat_, the rich heady fashionable drink of Orlais. She was left with the impression that Madeleina had not had many female friends and was unsure if she would be refused. Leliana had been delighted to accept; she liked the unpolished young woman, and was pleased to pursue the acquaintance.

But, for now, she needed to catch up on some gossip. After checking to ensure that Alistair was still stationed on the stairs, she began to circulate through the various antechambers, where those not inclined to dance, or to frequent the card rooms, clustered and chatted.

She found many who were willing, nay eager, to dish the dirt on the Candidates to the King's Advisor. Everyone had their own axe to grind, of course, that went without saying, so the information would have to be sifted for truth. She heard a great deal of troubling information about one Candidate in particular, then headed back to the ballroom just in time to see Alistair leading Eloise onto the floor with all the air of a man whose dreams had just come true.

_Oh perfect_, thought Leliana crossly, setting off in search of Eamon.

_-oOo-_

Naturally, the Barbarian King couldn't dance. Oh, he knew the steps and didn't tread on her much, but proved virtually incapable of talking and dancing at the same time. He had no idea how to manage the conversation around the complex measures that regularly separated them and then drew them back together.

So Eloise contented herself with smiling radiantly, secure in the knowledge that everyone knew she was the one who had him in her toils. Not that this was a major achievement when her competition consisted of a mouse and a hoyden; but it was vital that the Empress see her conforming to the Imperial will… for the moment, at least.

The whole thing had been absurdly easy. If he had any polish at all she would have needed to at least make a small effort to ensnare him. Timing her arrival to when he would be entering the ballroom was a trick no experienced courtier would have fallen for. He was handsome enough, she supposed, but his bastard blood was far more apparent than his royal blood, as was displayed by his fumbling manners. _She_ deserved a more… sophisticated kind of man.

When the dance ended she could see he was about to ask for the next; did this bumpkin not know what kind of signal it sent, dancing twice consecutively with the same woman? At the crucial moment his grey-bearded advisor appeared at his elbow, murmuring some excuse or other designed to ensure that he didn't do anything so indiscreet. She took the opportunity to gain a far better advantage, securing him for the dance before the supper break; this ensured that she would go into supper on his arm.

In the meantime, perhaps she could enjoy some _real_ dancing, with the spice of a beautifully polished flirtation.

_-oOo-_

"For the Maker's sake, Alistair, show some sense. However beautiful she may be it is far too soon to be showing such a decided preference. Go and find Henriette, or Madeleina, and ask them to dance. Please bear in mind that all these ladies are members of the Imperial family, and we do not wish to cause unnecessary offence to _anyone_."

"I suppose I was a bit… obvious. Alright, Eamon, you've made your point, I'm going."

Alistair stood looking around the crowded ballroom for a moment, trying to suppress the feeling that everyone was watching him. He couldn't see either of the two Candidates right now, but through the glittering, heaving throng he spotted a recognizable turban and headed over in that direction.

By the time the crowd shifted enough for him to see that Henriette wasn't sat with her mother, he was too close to change direction without it being offensive, so he was obliged to make his bow to the Turban and enquire after her daughter.

Dear Henriette was dancing right now, but would be desolate to have missed him. Somehow he doubted that, but made some appropriate response. Princesse Violetta was quite sure that her dearest girl was free for the dance before supper, if he was not engaged. He was? What a shame, then perhaps the one after supper? For some reason, missing the dance before supper seemed to annoy the Turban. What was so special about that one, anyway? He engaged himself for the dance after supper.

He bowed himself out of her presence and caught a glimpse of Madeleina, sat with her head close to her brother's ear; he was laughing uproariously at something she was whispering to him. He began to thread his way around the room towards them. As he approached their seats Maddy looked up, favouring him with such a genuine smile that he immediately felt more comfortable than he had all evening.

Alistair made his bow to Madeleina and Philippe, and straightened up to find Maddy laughing at him.

"Are we to be formal again now, Your Majesty?" she asked teasingly, and made him a sweeping curtsy before resuming her seat.

Philippe rolled his eyes. "Please excuse my sister; you can see why I have to lock her up in the country most of the time."

Alistair nodded, quirking his lips. "So she doesn't fall down and hurt herself?"

Over Philippe's crack of laughter, he turned to Madeleina. "I was hoping you'd do me the honour of dancing with me."

Maddy bit her lip looking doubtful. "Yes, of course, I'd be pleased to."

Alistair looked mournful. "This is what happens when I ask women to dance; they fear for their feet. Please don't think you'll offend me if you say no. I know exactly how bad my dancing is."

Maddy shook her head. "Oh no, I'm sure your dancing is _at least_ as good as mine, which unfortunately isn't much of a compliment." She hesitated, and then confessed. "The thing is… my shoes are killing me."

A surprised laugh burst from him. He suspected every other woman here would lacerate her feet to ribbons before admitting such a thing.

His spontaneous response seemed to reassure her; she smiled up at him confidingly and patted an adjoining chair. "We'd be very happy to have you join us if you wish, but I need to warn you; we are verbally annihilating the dancers as they pass us by, so you may be even more shocked at our lack of decorum than you are already."

He took the offered seat. "You haven't shocked me at all so far. Do your worst, I can bear it."

The direct gaze of those green eyes was slightly unnerving. "No, I really haven't, have I? Why is that? It's not only you - Leliana was lovely too, so natural and honest. Are all Fereldens this way?"

"Well, not all, but in Ferelden it's much less…" he waved his hand vaguely, trying to find a way to sum up the gilt and glitter and falsity of the Orlesian court, "not like this," he finished lamely.

"Leliana told me that you don't like pomp and fuss."

"It's on a shortlist of my least favourite things; which is a bit of a disadvantage when you are a king. It comes of not having been born to it, I suppose."

It was Philippe who responded in an amused drawl, "You would be surprised. There are plenty of people here who were not born to all of this." He gave a snort of derision as he surveyed the posturing multitude. "Yet see how they positively gorge themselves upon it."

The minstrels struck up another tune and Alistair leapt from his seat. "Oh Maker, I'm engaged for this one. Please excuse me, Maddy, Philippe."

He bowed and dove into the throng in search of Eloise.

_-oOo-_

Leliana had a plan.

It was not foolproof, and it required a sacrificial lamb which was a pity, but one could not make an omelette without smashing some eggs. It was definitely worth a try.

With this in mind, she ensured that she was at the same table as Henriette for supper. Striking up a conversation with her was not difficult; her sources had told her that the young woman had a strong scholarly interest in ancient manuscript versions of the Chant. An idle comment, at the right moment, sparked a discussion on the Forgotten Verses that had been found in the ruined Temple of Andraste. Henriette was enormously excited to hear that Leliana had actually been present when they were found, and had also spent time with Sister Justine during the translation process.

A striking change came over the blonde scholar once the discussion was underway. She was animated and intelligent; eyes glowing, cheeks flushed, displaying no signs of the shyness and timidity she was usually crippled with. Leliana saw that she was going to have to revise her opinion on this girl. It was all a bit of a shame really, but needs must.

Timing would be everything for this to succeed. Leliana worked the conversation round to the manuscripts held in the chantry here in the palace. She had never seen them and wondered if Henriette would be interested in going over there with her to view them? Supper would run for ages yet, they would be back in time for the dancing.

Upon Henriette eagerly agreeing, she stood up and picked up both of their goblets, handing one to her companion. They walked across the crowded room, Leliana staying very close to her side. This was going to require all her skill and dexterity, not merely to achieve her aim, but in order to ensure that Henriette had no idea what had occurred.

As they approached a certain table, where a couple sat at supper talking and laughing together, Leliana counted down carefully; the positioning must be perfect_. 3…2…1_… Leliana carefully tripped her companion. Henriette lurched forward, and her goblet of red wine poured all down the front of Eloise's exquisite, white lace ball gown.

There was a small frozen moment while Leliana's carefully arranged tableau held, and then it exploded. Leliana deliberately faded back slightly, taking herself out of the picture for the moment.

"You clumsy _fool_, look what you have done!"

"I'm so sorry, so stupid of me; I don't know what happened." Henriette was horrified, her hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay.

"What happened? What happened was that you are too clumsy to be let loose with a drink in your hand," raged Eloise, her voice climbing the register and becoming more strident by the syllable.

"Hey, steady on, it was an accident, let's get you cleaned up."

Eloise towered over the trembling blonde, face red and contorted with rage, ignoring Alistair's mild intercession completely. In blind fury, she slapped her distraught cousin hard across the face. "Admit it, you did it on purpose, you sly creature. How _dare_ you try such a trick on _me_?"

Tears flowed down Henriette's face, her shoulders shook, and Leliana moved forward to comfort her. "Of course she didn't do it on purpose, why would she? Can't you see how upset she is?"

"Who cares about her? My dress is ruined! _I'm_ the one with reason to beupset."

Then perhaps we should allow you to retire and compose yourself." The voice was cold and so entirely unlike Alistair's usual way of speaking, it stopped Eloise in her tracks for a moment.

She turned to him and saw, not the blushing, stammering, worshipful young man who had been hanging upon her every word, but a remote, aloof King who waved forward a servant. "Please be so good as to escort this lady to a retiring room, and assist her in any way you can." Alistair bowed distantly to Eloise, and turned away without another glance.

_-oOo-_

Alistair fished out a handkerchief and offered it to Henriette. "Hush now, it's over. It wasn't your fault."

He was furious with himself. Andraste's flaming sword, the woman was worse than _Morrigan_. How had he not seen it?

"Alistair, we need to get her out of here, give her a chance to compose herself without all these people gawking."

"Yes, of course, perhaps a walk in the garden?"

Leliana shook her head. "That will be full of people too. Take her down to the chantry, we were about to go there to look at manuscripts. Henriette is quite the scholar; it will be quiet there and will help her to calm down."

Alistair took Henriette's small hand in his large one and tucked it over his arm. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. "Come then, my lady, let me demonstrate to you how abysmal my scholarship is."

_I'm such a raving idiot. Thank the Maker for that accident._

_-oOo-_

Alistair did his best to distract Henriette during their walk to the chantry by rattling on about any absurdities that came into his head. He could feel her hand trembling on his arm, but after a while she became a little calmer, and even managed a tremulous smile.

He couldn't remember ever having to be the big, strong, protective man before. He had spent his entire life surrounded by either men or tough, powerful women. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant.

No, definitely not unpleasant.

When he led her into the chantry, the change in her was palpable. She was immediately calmer, more serene, as if absorbing tranquillity from the air itself. The trembling stopped; she smiled gratefully up at him and released his arm. "Thank you so much for your kindness, Your Majesty. I'm dreadfully sorry that I interrupted your supper with my carelessness."

"Please, call me Alistair. And really, don't mention it; I am just sorry that you were exposed to such a…_ harridan? bitch? shit-storm?_ …to such a scene." Let's put the whole thing behind us, shall we? We came to look at manuscripts, did we not? Lead the way, my lady."

She smiled shyly. "If you are to be Alistair, then I should be Henriette, no? Unless you think that is too forward." A tide of red flushed her pale features.

A memory flickered across his mind - Maddy poking fun at him so casually - and it suddenly struck him forcibly why she expected him to be shocked by her behaviour. Unmarried Orlesian maidens were required to behave impeccably, although from what he had seen the matrons had far, far more licence.

"Terribly forward, I'm shocked," he teased gently, and when her grey eyes flew to his the twinkle there reassured her. "So, tell me about your researches; is it the Chant in particular that you find most interesting?"

They moved through the chantry, Henriette leading him towards a door on the left. "Yes, I love to study and compare older versions of the Chant. Language changes over time, did you know that? Lots of sections of the current Chant are open to interpretation, as later copies depend upon the inscriber's understanding of what a particular archaic word or rune would translate to in our modern language."

She fumbled in a small bag at her waist, producing a key for the door, "The Chantry tends to take the view that the monks copying the text are guided by the Maker, or Andraste, and that therefore the current version of the Chant is always the correct one, unless a glaring omission is found."

She looked up, unexpectedly mischievous, as she opened the door and beckoned him inside. "From what I have read, I think that would mean that the Maker changes his mind quite often."

Alistair was surprised into a snort of laughter. "Wow, you made a joke! I was beginning to think you were always serious." He looked around at the racks of scrolls, shelves of books and expensive glass-fronted display cabinets. "How come you have a key? Do you live here, in the palace?"

She walked to the display cabinets, her mind obviously on the contents, and replied absently. "Oh no, I live in Arlesans. Mama is Princesse of that province and we have a palace there. When we arrived yesterday I slipped away to the chantry to speak to the curator, and he gave me a spare key so that I may study whenever I can esca…" She stopped dead, the colour draining from her face.

"Escape?" asked Alistair softly.

Her grey eyes pleaded with him. "Please don't tell Mama. She would be very displeased if she knew I came here."

"I don't understand. Why is it so terrible?"

She gave a small hopeless sigh and explained. "Mama does not think it a proper interest for a lady. The Empress supports scholarship and the arts, so it is very fashionable; where the Empress leads we follow." She spread her hands helplessly. "But Mama says that we should only do as the Empress does; employ scholars and artists, and provide funding for museums and galleries. That soiling our hands with the actual work is beneath us."

"I see."

Henriette regarded Alistair's ominous frown anxiously. "You are not… angry with me, are you? I do try to be a dutiful daughter, but this," she waved her hands at the shelves and cabinets, "makes me so happy, I cannot always resist."

He took her hand, squeezed it encouragingly and released it. "No, I'm not angry with you. Come; show me some of your manuscripts."

_-oOo-_

Much later, Alistair sprawled in his bed, aching with weariness. What a night. It seemed to have lasted several lifetimes.

The court was so complex, he didn't even know if he had made an idiot of himself, or not. He'd stumbled through the evening only vaguely aware of the undercurrents rippling around him; of who was trying to curry favour with him, and who was sneering. Of what the raised eyebrows, the shrugs, the smiles, the fan waving actually _meant_.

And, at some point in the next couple of days, he was going to have to decide on a bride. He pulled a pillow over his head and whimpered slightly. He really, _really_ didn't want to think about that. The only good news was that at least the two remaining ladies seemed nice. Neither of them had looked down their noses at him, as he had feared they would. This was a definite plus.

But Eloise had been nice to him as well, and look how _that_ turned out. She had re-appeared later in the evening in a fresh gown, full of smiles and soft apologies. Did she really believe that he could so easily forgive how _cruel_ she had been to that gentle girl? He had excused himself as quickly as possible, and avoided her for the rest of the evening.

The real question was this; are either of the others just as false? He moved the pillow back where it belonged, linked his hands behind his head and considered that notion. He instinctively felt that both Madeleina and Henriette were genuine, but right now he didn't know whether he trusted his intuition.

Despite really, really not wanting to think about it, he thought of little else until sleep finally took him.

_-oOo-_


	3. Chapter 3

_-oOo-_

After breakfast the core of the Ferelden delegation convened in Alistair's sitting room to catch up. A maidservant brought in a tea tray, served them with quiet efficiency and left. Only then did Eamon speak. "So, how was your evening, Alistair?"

He groaned. "Unspeakably dire. Give me a horde of darkspawn any day, at least then I'd have some faint idea what's going on around me."

Leliana giggled. "Oh, but you managed so beautifully, Alistair, I was so proud of you, particularly when you cut that horrible Eloise dead. You were so," she waved her hands in an obscure Orlesian gesture, "majestic."

"Please, I don't want to think about it; when she called Henriette a fool in _that_ tone all I could think of was Morrigan. I nearly lost my supper."

Leliana exuded innocence. "Henriette looked much happier when you returned her to the ballroom I thought. And her unspeakable mother looked as though she might expire from triumph. Even the fact that you returned too late to dance did not burst her bubble."

"I wish she_ would_ expire, it would probably improve the world significantly. Henriette is in total terror of her."

"You spent some time with all of the young ladies last night?" enquired Eamon. "May I ask what you think of them?"

Alistair drank some tea, looking evasive. "They are both… nice."

"May I take it then that Princesse Odette's daughter Eloise has been completely eliminated from the running?"

"You may."

"Good," Leliana approved. "Last night I heard much about her. The Court calls her 'La Fleur D'Orage' or 'The Storm Flower' in the common tongue, her temper is as famous as her beauty. They say she has had many affairs, that men have died duelling over her and that this pleases her. Also that she has displeased the Empress with one of her liaisons."

"And the other two ladies, Alistair?" pursued Eamon. "Do you have any partiality for one or the other?"

Alistair avoided the question by asking one of his own. "Leliana, what do you know about Henriette and Madeleina? Did you hear anything?"

"Nothing we could not have discerned for ourselves. They say that Maddy is a hoyden, running wild in the country, grubbing around in her garden with only her brother Philippe to chaperon her. That she is rude and uncouth and that it is unbefitting for an Imperial Princesse to behave so."

"I would concur with that description," interjected Eamon. "Her behaviour when she was presented to Alistair was disgraceful." Alistair wasn't sure he agreed with that assessment but did not respond, merely gesturing for Leliana to continue.

"What is said about Henriette is that she is a mouse of scholarly persuasion, completely dominated by her mother. And that Princesse Violette is disliked by her sister Empress Celene and will do absolutely anything to gain favour with her." Leliana frowned remembering. "There was a suggestion of something else too – someone said slyly that perhaps Henriette should be taking the sun robe instead of taking a husband - which is to say that she should enter the Chantry. When I tried to find out why, they laughed it off as a joke." She looked a little wistful, perhaps remembering her own time in the Chantry. "She would make an excellent Sister, but of course Princesse Violetta would never permit it."

"She's a very prettily behaved young lady," approved Eamon. "Unfortunately, she has been so sheltered, her political awareness is minimal. In fact, it seems that the Empress has put forward only young ladies with little or no political acumen. I suppose it is understandable that she would not wish you to have an Orlesian wife who is capable of giving you a political advantage over Orlais." Eamon finished his tea and stood up. "I must go; I have a meeting with one of the Empress' advisors. I am trying to get an appointment with the Chancellor to renegotiate our trade agreements with Orlais, and to get some of the sanctions lifted, but he seems to be avoiding me." He looked meaningfully at Alistair. "I suspect he won't see me until after the engagement is announced, and that the negotiation will be heavily affected by how satisfied the Empress is with the outcome. Please give some thought to which of the ladies you believe will make you a suitable Queen. The sooner this decision is made the better."

There was silence for a moment after he left; Alistair shifted in his chair and looked over at Leliana. "No prizes for guessing which one Eamon thinks I should offer for, huh?"

Leliana gave her head a vehement shake. "It doesn't matter what Eamon thinks. The important thing, Alistair, is which one _you_ want to marry. You are the one who has to live with her after all. Arl Eamon is only concerned about getting a good Queen; you need to think about who you would like as your wife."

"What I would _like_ is to not marry someone I hardly know. To take time, get to know her." He combed his hands through his hair in frustration. "Instead of which, I have to make a snap decision on which woman to spend _the rest of my life_ with."

Leliana left her seat and perched on the arm of Alistair's chair instead. She reached out and smoothed his rumpled hair sympathetically. "This is why you need to decide on a wife, not a Queen. The Arl will always push for the ideal political decision; it is his duty to do so. You need to remember that it is not part of _your_ duty to choose an impeccable Queen. Your duty is to produce an heir, which you can do with any fertile wife of good birth." She leaned down and hugged him tightly, trying to release a little of the stress he was suffering. He rested his head against her shoulder, accepting the comfort. "I know it's hard when you don't know them properly, Alistair, but you need to listen to your heart. No-one else knows what is best for you." She released him and planted a kiss on his forehead before scooting out of her seat. "I have to go too; I'm taking _chocolat_ with Maddy soon and need to get ready."

"You are? You like her don't you Leliana?"

Leliana broke into a peal of delighted laughter. "You can't catch me out that easily. I like both of them, and no, I'm not going to help you pick one. You are on your own in this, my friend." She blew him a kiss and fled before he could press her any further.

_-oOo-_

Philippe sipped his tea and watched his sister across the rim. She appeared somewhat abstracted this morning; with some amusement he watched her spoon marmalade on a piece of bread that she had already smeared with preserve.

"Sweet tooth this morning, dear?"

"Huh?"

He gestured to the loaded bread and she looked down perplexed. "Oh, how did that happen?"

"I have no idea, love. Perhaps you have something on your mind?" Receiving no response to this, he abandoned subtlety. Directness usually worked best when dealing with Maddy anyway. "So, what did you think of the scrumptious King Alistair?"

"He seemed… nice."

Nice. She had met a man who was gorgeous, unpretentious, ruled a country and, most importantly, wasn't in the slightest bit fazed by her, and this was all she could come up with? With some difficulty Philippe refrained from drumming his fingers on the table, and settled instead for poking unerringly at his sister's weak spot. "He coped really well with you flinging yourself at his feet and swearing at him, I thought."

She looked up from the fresh piece of bread she was buttering and glared at her brother. "I did not fling myself at him; I caught my stupid heel in my dress. And I didn't swearat him, I just… swore." She subsided as quickly as she had bristled, regarding Philippe with fond amusement. "You're going to explode if we don't discuss this, aren't you?"

He leant his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands, all agog. "Absolutely, _ma chérie_; I want to hear it all."

"Good," she stated flatly and stood up, abandoning her breakfast. She made a mocking little curtsy and turned to the door. With her hand on the handle, she tilted her head towards him. "Try not to explode too messily. I'll send a maid to clean up later."

Philippe's hoot of laughter followed her out the door.

_-oOo-_

Abandoned by his advisors, Alistair prowled restlessly around the over-decorated room. It was a less than ideal environment for prowling, being liberally sprinkled with spindly tables, tapestry fire screens, and musical instruments_. Because at any moment I may develop a burning desire to play a harp, _he thought dryly, skirting the offending item.

_What I really need is some exercise. _He could think properly when he was training. He crossed to the door and popped his head out. Two guards stood in the corridor, one Royal and one Imperial. Celene had not been happy about the idea of armed Fereldens roaming her palace, so a compromise had been reached for when he was within the boundaries of her personal domain. For parties and functions he had agreed to accept that her security was good enough that he go unguarded. Guards seriously cluttered up a dance floor to be fair.

He addressed the Imperial guard, "Is there somewhere I can train? I need some exercise."

The guard bowed. "You require weapons training Your Majesty? Yes of course, the nobles' yard would be suitable."

_Of course, the Orlesian nobles wouldn't want to smell any common sweat, would they_? "Fine, I'll change my clothes and be out in five minutes."

"As you wish, Your Majesty." The guard's voice, expression and grade of bow clearly showed what he thought of the King's informal conversational style. Behind his back, Cedric - of the Kings Own - rolled his eyes and grinned over the Orlesian's shoulder at his King. Early in his reign Alistair had made it crystal clear to his personal guard that they must treat him like a human being, or leave his service. No exceptions. They were also highly trained; he would have no-one in the King's Own who wasn't good enough to spar with him. He knew that in a real emergency, weak guards would put him at more risk as he would seek to protect them. Too often, he and Melissa had run themselves ragged trying to save guards and militiamen. As a result being in the King's Own was considered both an honour and a privilege, and Alistair was proud of them.

He quickly changed into heavy trousers and a padded arming jack, knowing that he would be able to pick up suitable armour and weapons at the armoury next to the yard. Training in any of his own, heavily enchanted, gear would be completely over the top. Slinging the strap of a water bottle over his shoulder he barrelled out of the room, guards falling in behind him, keen to get down there and work off some steam.

_-oOo-_

Her sight blurred again and she quickly stepped back, away from the precious parchment. It was no good, she couldn't study; the risk of damaging the ancient manuscripts was too great. Henriette left the lectern and dropped into a hard chair instead, fumbling for her handkerchief.

Mama had been cock-a-hoop at breakfast this morning, quite sure that it was only a matter of time before the Ferelden King proposed. According to gossip, Madeleina had made a total fool of herself when being presented and was considered very unlikely to attach King Alistair's interest. Eloise, for a while considered the favourite, had been eliminated by her appalling tantrum. Henriette couldn't remember ever seeing Mama so delighted, or so satisfied with her. What was truly horrible was that she had also congratulated her daughter on so skilfully removing her opponent. Apparently Eloise was not the only one who thought she had thrown that wine on purpose. How could they think she would do such a thing?

How could they think she would _want _to?

She dragged herself out of the chair, meticulously rerolled the manuscript she had been studying and carefully put it away before leaving and locking the door of the study. Her soft slippers made no sound as she walked down the aisle of the empty chantry. Morning sunlight slanted down on the statue of Andraste, and she reverently went to one knee before it.

_Holy Andraste I beg you, show me your will that I may know my true duty. _She remained in prayer; head bent in submission, as the morning light moved and eventually bathed the statue in a golden glow from directly above.

_oOo-_

Ferdinand Valoise, Chancellor to her Imperial Majesty Celene I, read over the freshly delivered papers before him and pursed his lips. The Empress' instructions had been clear; her wayward niece was to be given one chance and one only. The transcript from the listening post next to their finest guest chambers made his decision simple.

He signed the order, affixed it with the Imperial seal and dispatched it immediately.

_-oOo-_

If Leliana also thought that Maddy's mind was elsewhere, then she hid it admirably. She was quite happy to carry the bulk of the conversation; chattering brightly about the garden party they would be attending today, the music and dancing in the evening, the dress she would wear. She refrained from attempting to discuss Alistair directly, although she did share with her new friend the deliciously amusing story of what had happened to The Dreadful Eloise. Her recitation naturally did not involve anyone tripping anyone else up.

Maddy's reaction surprised her a little, though. "My poor Henri, she's not cut out for such an ordeal. Was she very upset?"

Leliana blinked,_ my poor Henri?_ There was a story here then. "She was very distressed indeed; I sent Alistair down to the chantry with her, the peace of the Maker calmed her, so there was no lasting harm." Now to find out the story. "You speak of her as though you know her quite well. I didn't realise that."

"Well, she is my niece you know, although we are much of an age so we played together as children. Philippe was a terrible tease as a little boy, so I used to protect Henri from him. She gets frightened so easily, poor girl." Maddy looked pensive and gave her head a gentle shake. "I wanted to speak to her last night, but Violetta always seemed to be there. It's pointless trying to talk to Henri when her mother is present."

"Well, perhaps we can kidnap her from the party tonight. Find a quiet corner, hide from our families and friends, be all girls together for a while." Leliana was all mischief. "That would be fun, yes?"

The corners of Maddy's mouth curled up in an evil grin, transforming her little pixie face. "It will get royally up the nose of my dear sister Violetta, so yes, it will be great fun."

_-oOo-_

A couple of hours with the training dummy eased the restlessness and improved his mood, but left him no nearer a decision. Assuming he genuinely had any choice at all. Eamon and Leliana seemed to take it for granted that both girls would accept an offer from him, but he had his doubts. It was likely that Henriette would not have a choice, her mother would see to that. This, in itself, bothered him, and he would prefer to know what her wishes were before putting her in that position. Madeleina was a different proposition entirely. He had a suspicion that she would turn him down flat if she didn't want him, whatever the consequences. His understanding of Orlesian internal politics was not strong enough to know whether she would suffer for such a decision.

He gathered up his gear, looking forward to a hot bath, and turned to find his exit blocked by a little cluster of very young men, the hopes of several Orlesian houses. They were fronted by a somewhat older black-haired noble with a marked sneer on his face.

"Ah, the Bastard King, honouring us with his presence; this explains the redolent aroma of mud and dogs." The group behind him snickered sycophantically, although one or two of them looked a bit worried. Alistair felt the worried ones had the right of it. Surely picking a quarrel with the Empress' honoured guest was a bad move around these parts, right?

"Was there something you wanted from me?" He kept his tone mild, swallowing his irritation; his illegitimacy had been thrown in his face all through his boyhood, and as a result it got under his skin far too easily. His guards took up their positions behind his shoulders, and the sneer facing him grew more pronounced. There was inexplicable cold fury and an undercurrent of fear in the man's black eyes, at odds with the sneering mouth. What in Andraste's name was going on?

"You have _nothing_ I want," he spat. "The Warden King was too crude to recognise a precious jewel when it was offered to him, and now she lies broken in the courtyard." He threw his gauntlet at Alistair's feet. "And so I demand satisfaction for her death, _Your Majesty,_" his tone mocked the title and he stood awaiting a response with folded arms.

"Who-" began Alistair bewildered, but was cut off by a familiar voice.

"Raoul! Don't be such a flaming idiot; you _know_ it wasn't Alistair's fault." Philippe approached from the right, a bow slung across his back, appearing to have run from the archery range to intercept them.

Raoul bared his teeth in a vicious grin, watching the new arrival take up a supportive position at Alistair's side. "But of course, Prince Philippe rushes to protect the Bastard from harm. After all, who else would marry his uncouth, grubby, little hayseed sister?" Philippe stepped towards Raoul in sudden fury, but it was Alistair's fist that crashed into the man's face, knocking him sprawling.

Lying in the dust is not usually conducive to aggravating your opponent further, but it seemed this Raoul was an enthusiast. Ignoring the contusion swelling on one side of his jaw he continued his provocation. "You see my friends; commoners always resort to brawling rather than settling their differences like gentlemen. Blood will out."

"What in all the deepest, darkest corners of the Fade is your problem?" retorted Alistair furiously. "I've never even met you, have I?"

Raoul picked himself up from the floor and dusted himself down. "I have offered you a challenge. Etiquette demands that you respond. I would not have to explain this if you were not a peasant. What do you say?"

Alistair's fists were clenched, but he had himself well in hand. "I'd love to beat you senseless right now, but I'm not going to duel you. I don't know you, and I have no idea what your beef is."

Philippe looked troubled and opened his mouth to speak, but in that moment Raoul supplied the cut too deep to ignore. "It does not surprise me to find you are a coward. Here in Orlais we heard how the Ferelden King sent his woman to die for him on the roof of Fort Drakon, while _his_ precious skin was kept safe."

The world narrowed to just those cold, black eyes in front of him. Philippe was still trying to tell him something, but Alistair couldn't hear him over the screaming of the arch-demon in his head.

"You'll get your fight, ser."

_-oOo-_

The duelling ground had been paced out and both men were now armed and armoured. Philippe, as Alistair's second, had tried his level best to fulfil his primary duty and reconcile the two men. Alistair had brushed his words away, had brushed away also all his attempts to explain what was driving Raoul. His new friend was in the grip of an icy rage, and had no intention of backing off. He sighed and relented. "Alistair, be careful. He has quite a reputation as a duellist."

Alistair's smile was grim, his usually warm eyes unemotional. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Raoul favoured leathers and a sword and dagger, relying on his dexterity to protect him. Alistair had chosen massive armour that would cripple most men, together with a sword and shield. He was a big man at the best of times, and in this gear he looked huge. There had been a murmur from the growing crowd of watching nobles when he emerged from the armoury - _no-one_ duelled in such armour, the loss of movement was not worth the additional protection. The Ferelden King had dressed for war.

The two men took up their positions in the duelling ground, with their seconds at opposite corners. The crowd was even bigger now and growing all the time. Bets were being taken and the excitement was palpable, the yard clamoured with their cheers and comments.

When the fight began, it was immediately apparent to Philippe that Alistair was _not_ a duellist. His technique contained no circling, no fancy footwork, and absolutely no subtlety. He was a man accustomed to fighting for his life or not fighting at all. He was a warrior, a warden, _a killer_.

If Raoul wanted to control the fight he had to use his speed and agility to get close and disable his opponent without getting hit. Alistair wasted no time getting the drop on him to prevent this; he let loose a war cry of such concussive force it knocked Raoul from his feet. This advantage was followed up with an assault consisting of several fast sword hits, and before his opponent could fully recover his balance, Alistair used his shield to slam him back to the ground.

_Sweet Andraste_, thought Philippe, watching as Alistair attacked Raoul again and - as the Orlesian got back to his feet - sliced at his head with his shield, causing him to stagger, stunned. _This isn't a duel, this is …. _he wasn't sure what it was. Not murder, not quite war, but certainly not duelling. More blows followed the manoeuvre. There was no cheering now from the crowd, they were silent, the tension tangible.

Philippe bit his lip, and surveyed the protagonists anxiously. Such a furious assault must be tiring in such encumbering armour, and Alistair couldn't continue to control the fight so perfectly for long. Raoul would soon have an opportunity to go on the offensive; to demonstrate the skill for which he was renowned, and take control, turning this encounter into a more traditional duel where he could excel. Or he might yield; he was already severely injured, with blood streaming from a long cut in his scalp and a couple of cracked ribs as a minimum. Yielding with such injuries would not be dishonourable.

Alistair seemed to be thinking the same; for the first time he stepped back, allowing the Orlesian time to yield if he wished and taking the chance to catch his breath. Raoul snarled viciously through a veil of blood and stepped forward, shaking gore out of his eyes. The Ferelden King nodded reluctantly, and a glow began to form around him. Raoul moved with startling speed despite his injuries, stepping lithely inside his opponent's shield defence, seeking to incapacitate with a short weapon; if he could gain the advantage now, the tide would turn. At that moment, a startlingly bright circle of white light exploded out from Alistair, knocking his opponent back. While the Orlesian still staggered, he followed up with another series of blows and Raoul crumpled limply to the ground, bleeding from several locations.

_Maker, as if the rest isn't enough, he's a templar as well_, thought Philippe, as Raoul's second rushed to check the fallen man, and the crowd released their tension with a sudden buzz of conversation.

The second raised his head. "He lives. Get a healer, quickly."

As soon as this fact was established, Alistair walked out of the duelling ground - not a mark on him, although his face looked drawn and tired – and strode off towards the bathhouse without a word. Philippe looked in stunned amazement at the human wreckage he had left in his wake, turned on his heel, and hurried after him.

_-oOo-_


	4. Chapter 4

_-oOo-_

After the duel, Alistair remained in his bath far longer than usual. He almost scrubbed himself raw trying to purge the shame of his loss of temper, before he suddenly realised what he was doing and threw the brush across the room. It had all escalated so fast; why had a perfect stranger tried so hard to provoke him, had even been prepared to say _that_ to him? Nothing made any sense.

When he finally emerged, a servant murmured that Prince Philippe awaited him in the steam room if he cared to join him. He slung a linen cloth around his hips and made his way there. There was no-one else in the steam room, which was a mercy at least. Water trickled onto magically heated stones to provide a constant supply of hot steam. Philippe laid full length on one of the marble benches, a similar linen cloth laid across his lap. When he heard Alistair enter the room he turned on his side and watched him carefully, clearly trying to gauge his mood.

Alistair sat down on the bench opposite, rubbing his hands over his face despondently before clasping them in front of him. "Please don't look at me like that Philippe, I already feel like a monster."

His new friend regarded him gravely. "Not at all _mon ami_, you were perfectly within your rights. I can't deny though that your technique is rather… terrifying. I certainly doubt that anyone else will be rash enough to challenge you after that display."

"Well, that's a blessing anyway. I usually try to avoid duels; in fact my last one was Loghain…" He trailed off, suddenly far away, then shook his head and focussed on the man lounging opposite. "I have a vague memory of you trying to tell me something, but I was definitely not in the mood to listen. I apologise if I was rude; I'm grateful for your support."

"You are very welcome Alistair; but if you will permit it, I would still like to tell you what I was trying to say earlier." He looked an enquiry and received a nod in response. "Then let me begin by saying that I do not think Raoul's rather iniquitous comments were based in any real grievance against you. He knew perfectly well that no genuine blame could be laid at your door. It is my belief he was hoping you would kill him. The Warden King's reputation is fearsome, and well deserved it seems. I wished you to know this before agreeing to fight him but…" Philippe's shrug indicated the impossibility of achieving this aim.

Alistair could feel the frustration he had experienced in his bath rising again, and forced it down. Philippe was not his enemy, but he'd be damned if he'd be kept in the dark any longer. "Two questions: one – who was that madman? And two – blame for what? He mentioned a death; whose death? And why did _he_ want to die? Alright, that's four questions, but I need some answers."

The prince secured his linen loincloth and sat up, gripping the edge of the marble seat and leaning forward slightly. He gazed at Alistair, green eyes compassionate. "That madman was Raoul Malvalen, until recently the favoured toy of the Empress. His ostensible reason for challenging you was the supposed suicide of his not-so-secret lover. Eloise de Val Chevin, who sometime after breakfast fell from her balcony to her death."

Alistair stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. "What… why?" He gaped like a landed fish, utterly unable to marshal his thoughts. Eloise was dead? No, surely not. A thought bubbled up and he grabbed it. "_Supposed_ suicide?"

Philippe moved across to sit close against Alistair's side and his voice dropped to a murmur, barely audible over the constant hissing of cold water onto hot stones. "Quietly my friend, this is a delicate subject. All that is known is that Mademoiselle Eloise was fine when her maid brought her breakfast in bed. When the maid returned one hour later, the balcony doors were open and Eloise was found to be dead in the courtyard below."

Alistair watched him intently, trying to understand what was behind this. "And why is it seen as a suicide? That tale could just as easily describe a murder, or an accident. What does the Guard Captain say about it?"

Philippe shook his head sadly, dropping his voice a shade further so Alistair had to lean closer to hear. "Tell me, King Alistair - if, at home in your Denerim Palace, you found someone had been enjoying one of your… playthings, wouldn't that person's sudden death inspire an utter lack of curiosity in your guards?"

"WHAT?"

"_Ssshhh"_

So many things in Philippe's question revolted him, for a moment Alistair didn't even know how to begin refuting them. "Do you really think that I would… that I…" He pulled himself together and tried again. "Firstly, I don't have _playthings_; Holy Andraste, what kind of a man do you think I am? Secondly, even if I did, I wouldn't… And, I sodding well hope the palace guards _would_ kick up a fuss if one of my house guests was found dead."

This whole thing was so distasteful, so bloody _Orlesian_. He stared at Philippe, his brain finally kicking into gear. "So, are you saying the Empress ordered her death? That doesn't make sense, why would they…" he stopped and blushed furiously, realising that he could hardly say to Maddy's brother: W_hy would they put her forward as a candidate to marry me?_

Philippe gave him a knowing little smile. "Why would they offer her to you as a potential wife and then slay her?" Alistair nodded reluctantly, blushing even harder. "I hear you spurned her most convincingly last night, did you not? Perhaps the Empress had offered her a final opportunity to… remove herself. She _is_ family after all."

Alistair stared at him aghast. "So that's why Raoul challenged me; he thinks she died because I… because I wouldn't…" Words failed him. _And Raoul wanted to die honourably in a duel rather than wait for his own assassin to turn up_, he thought, sickened to the core.

A new horror reared its ugly head. "Is anyone _else_ going to be under threat if I reject them?"

Philippe's brow furrowed as he thought about that. "I don't know… Probably not… but I can't be sure." He bit his lip in concern. "If I thought that Maddy was at risk I would take her home now… but no. She is not involved in the court or politics; there is no reason to fear for her that I know of."

He smiled fondly. "My little sister is certainly considered a disgrace to the Imperial Family, as she has always chosen to stay at our estate in Ghislain with her beloved gardens, rather than coming to Court and seeking a splendid match. However, I do not think the Empress seeks to remove her."

"So, why is she here now?" The question blurted out before Alistair could prevent it. He looked down at his hands, feeling like an idiot as another flush rose in his face. He finally looked up, relieved to find Philippe seriously considering the question, and not laughing at him.

"Possibly because it was made clear that the Empress desired it. Even her close family do not lightly spurn her commands. I am reasonably certain though that, when Maddy arrived, she had absolutely no intention whatsoever of marrying you."

"Oh." He really hadn't meant for that to sound so forlorn.

There was a soft laugh from the side of him. "That was when she arrived. I do not know her mind now, _mon ami_, and I would not tell you, even if I did. My loyalty is to her naturally." The Orlesian prince arose from the bench and stretched like a cat. "Now, I suggest we leave before we wrinkle like prunes. We must appear glowingly gorgeous for the day's festivities, must we not?"

_-oOo-_

Alistair set off back to his apartments, guards firmly in place behind him.

He wished he could set a similar guard on his emotions. He felt sickened, horrified, appalled by what he had heard. Most of all he was dreadfully homesick. When he took the throne, he had known himself to be a naïve child compared to the nobles constantly jostling for position in Ferelden. He had worked hard to learn about politics in the year or so since then, and had believed he was making good progress.

Here in Orlais, he was a babe in arms. The Imperial court was rotten to its very core, nothing was as it seemed. Sweet smiles shrouded vicious intent, while savage attacks masked desperate fear. Careless words could cause someone's death.

He cut through a portion of the Imperial gardens in order to shorten his journey. This was where the day's entertainments were to take place, and it bustled with servants ensuring that everything was just as the Empress desired it. The gardens, more than any other part of the Palace, reeked of ostentation. Although it was spring, and weather still quite cool, the gardens were mild and warm. The air was heady with the scents of summer; the lush display of flowers and plants took no account whatsoever of the season. This was achieved at stupendous expense by the use of magical devices, spaced at intervals around the perimeter of the garden and recharged morning and night by the Court mages. The entire garden was covered in a dome of magical energy which kept the ambient air at the required temperature.

On the day of his arrival, upon first stepping into the gardens, he had nearly buckled under the weight of all that magic, templar senses screaming. Within a short time it had reduced to a slight headache and pressure behind his ears, but it never went away completely. Today it symbolized everything that was _wrong_ about the Imperial Court. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He turned a corner and abruptly stopped dead, his guards nearly piling into the back of him.

Maddy appeared to be stealing the Empress' roses.

She was completely unaware of him, and for a moment he was able to observe her. She was wearing a faded green dress, and had pulled her wavy brown hair into a thick plait that hung nearly to her waist. She looked almost childlike, an effect heightened by her small stature. She stood on tiptoes, reaching up to a flawless deep red rose, using a small pair of secateurs to snip its stem. She turned to drop it in the trug slung over her arm, and in that instant she saw him.

She started to smile, to say something and then frowned, looking into his face searchingly. She dropped the flower and the tiny shears in her basket, and walked quickly along the path to where he stood.

"Something's wrong. What is it?" she asked, still seeking the answer in his face.

Alistair blinked, taken aback both by her acuity and the abrupt question. There was no way he could even begin to explain the morning he had endured, the thoughts swirling round his head. Even if he was prepared to confide in her – and that was a question in itself – the subject could not be discussed here, with his guards behind him. He was conscious of how careful Philippe had been to mask their conversation beneath the sound of hissing steam. This subject was not safe to discuss in the open, and he would not betray Philippe's honesty by endangering his beloved sister.

He answered with the only thing he could safely voice. "I'm homesick I think."

She smiled in quick sympathy, still observing him, clearly not at all taken in by the simple answer. Her concern was touching; he barely knew this girl, or her brother, and they had been astoundingly considerate towards him. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude and warm affection for both of them.

She gave a tiny nod, seeming to understand that he could say no more, and responded in kind. "That I can understand; I miss my home too."

He shook off his bad humour and grinned at her, changing the subject. "So, can I expect you to be hauled away to an oubliette for this blatant theft? Will we have to cut holes in our socks to make masks and break you out in the middle of the night?" He indicated the trug full of gorgeous blooms she was carrying.

Accepting the altered mood, she snorted and elevated her freckled little nose in mock hauteur. "I'll have you know that the Head Gardener worships the very ground I walk on, and begrudges me nothing." She abandoned the pose, and added with her usual candour. "This may have something to do with the fact that I brought him some of my own rare cultivars to graft onto rootstock. We gardeners are very susceptible to bribery, you know."

"I'll have to remember that," he responded, his tone warm and flirtatious. For the first time, he saw her look a little self-conscious.

She covered it quickly, directing his attention to the perfumed plunder nestling in her basket. "I wanted to make up a posy for Leliana. She said that she would be wearing white today and these red roses will please her, I hope. I cut a few extras for myself while I was here; I wouldn't usually bother, but it's no additional effort."

"She'll like that. But, if you really want to make her happy, put a few Andraste's Grace in the posy. They are her favourite." A memory floated up; Melissa being hugged by a tearful Leliana holding those tiny white flowers. He shoved it aside, now was definitely not the time.

"Truly? I'll get some then. They are rare in Orlais, but they will be grown here. I'll ask the gardeners where to find them. Aha! I've had another good idea too." Maddy pointed at him with one slim and slightly grubby finger and smiled with sunny warmth. "Wait there just a minute," she ordered. Turning from him, she surveyed the rose bushes with a predatory eye. He obediently waited, watching her with curiosity as she searched out two perfect, deep red rosebuds and cut them expertly.

She exclaimed anxiously, and examined one of the bushes with a troubled expression. "This one has a canker. I must let the gardeners know. It will have to be destroyed to prevent it spreading to the others." She stroked her finger over the stem gently, evidently upset. Alistair's headache throbbed and he glared up at the magical shield. This wretched garden was a templar's nightmare.

Maddy returned to her task, taking one of the buds and deftly twisting it with a fern from her basket to make a buttonhole. She smiled, pleased with her handiwork and turned to face him. "This one is for you, Alistair, the other one is for Philippe; for the party tonight."

She's giving me a flower? Wait, isn't this the wrong way round? What should a man say when a girl gives him a flower? He gazed at the little rose and realisation hit him; it was exactly the same colour as the one he had found in Lothering, so long ago. His throat closed up tight.

She faltered, perhaps at his expression; for the merest moment looking uncertain, then recovered her poise. Moving close, she reached up to fix the little rose to the collar of his jerkin. The top of her head only came to his chin; he could smell her hair, scented with sunshine and flowers.

In his mind the words roiled and surfaced; _what a rare and precious thing you are to find amidst all this darkness. _Here in Val Royeaux the darkness was perfumed and gilded, but just as repellent. He stared down at her, his thoughts in turmoil, telling himself that he was reading too much into it - it's just a rose of the same colour, it doesn't mean anything. Nevertheless for the first time since the Blight ended, he felt _alive_. Her hand brushed his throat as she worked; all her attention was on securing the little rosebud. His skin reacted to her touch; he was now all too aware of her proximity, her warmth, her scent. The rosebud safely in place, she finally looked up at him, hand falling away from his collar, sunny smile fading at his intense gaze. He realised he still hadn't spoken a word.

"Thank you." The voice he heard - his voice - was too hoarse, too raw, it exposed him. Her mouth was soft and inviting, green eyes wide and just a little apprehensive. He wanted to stroke her hair, tilt her chin and kiss her. The gentleman in him protested: Stop, this isn't right, it's too soon, too public, unfair to her when you don't know your own mind. He stepped back; the moment passed, the world returned.

Maddy looked up at the sun through the shimmering shield and gasped. "I'm going to be hideously late if I don't run; the stuck-up dresser that Celene inflicted on me will be in a dreadful snit." She darted off down the path, hair escaping from her braid, swinging her trug of flowers with all the abandon of a little girl. At the corner she stopped and turned; he was unmoving, still watching her. She hesitated, waved once and was gone.

_-oOo-_

Leliana didn't return to the suite of rooms assigned to the Ferelden delegation until late afternoon, which meant that she must bathe and prepare for the party immediately. This was bothersome, as she really needed to catch up with Alistair, but according to her maid the King was already closeted with his valet.

After her visit with Maddy that morning, she had left the palace compound and travelled into the city to buy some necessary supplies, and to stop in at a couple of old haunts where she could meet some contacts and catch up on some news. It was so pleasant to be in Val Royeaux again she had stayed too long, savouring the sights and smells she loved.

She had picked up a great many bits of gossip; most not directly relevant to their mission, but to be tucked away in case of need. She heard a vast amount about Eloise's untimely demise; this was the main topic of conversation, rumour and speculation were rife, most of it scurrilous and some of it wide of the mark.

It troubled her that Alistair's name was being linked to the death. This was a popular rumour among the common folk - that Eloise had committed suicide after being rejected by the Ferelden King - although not many of the nobles were taking it seriously; not those who knew what Eloise was like. Nonetheless Leliana resolved to try to get to Alistair before he heard it from anywhere else. It was bound to upset him and he had enough on his mind right now, the poor lamb.

While the maid prepared her bath, she took a little time to prepare some of the substances she had procured in town. She had shopped with a specific plan in mind and quickly made up the doses she needed.

She was dressed and ready to leave when the maid brought in a beautiful posy; deep red roses, tiny white Andraste's Grace and soft feathery ferns, tied with long white ribbons. "Princesse Madeleina's maid just delivered them, mademoiselle. She said they were sent with Her Highness' compliments." After Leliana had exclaimed over the flowers, and drank her fill of the heavenly scents, it occurred to her to wonder how Maddy had known to give her Andraste's Grace.

Five minutes later, when she joined the others in the sitting room, she saw the red rosebud fastened onto Alistair's modish cream silk doublet and suspected she had her answer.

_-oOo-_

Alistair had checked the balcony earlier and was reasonably certain they would not be overheard there. Leliana caught on quickly to the hint he dropped, but it took several pointedly enthusiastic suggestions before Eamon agreed that a drink on the balcony would be lovely before going to the garden party.

As quietly as possible he filled them in on at least _some_ of the events of the day. The duel was a definite for sharing, and most of the conversation in the sauna was acceptable too, but beyond that…

No. Not ready for that yet.

"Well, this is troubling," murmured Eamon, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Too many meetings meant that he was the only one who was not hearing any gossip for himself. Alistair had a twinge of guilt over that, even at parties Eamon was busy politicking with the greybeards while he gallivanted around with young ladies. But that was why he was here, right?

Leliana shrugged placidly. "I think things are not as bad as they sound. The nobles will not believe that Eloise killed herself over Alistair. They know what she was like. They will pay lip service to the rumour perhaps, in order to avoid implicating the Empress, but that is all." Her blue eyes were dispassionate, it seemed that every hour she became less the Leliana he knew and more the Orlesian bard she used to be. "After all, how much will it affect us if the common people of Val Royeaux chew over this morsel for their entertainment?"

Ever since they arrived Alistair had been grateful that she was here, that he was not all alone in this viper pit. But really, that was a bit much, wasn't it? He felt obliged to protest, "I think I'd really prefer it if _no-one_ thought she had killed herself because of me, and oh, you know what? I'd also rather not be the scapegoat in all this."

She remained pragmatic. "But Alistair, how can we avoid it? What is done is done. We must not show ourselves to be exposed in this. Demonstrate a proper amount of concern for the death of a fellow guest, but no more. That is how these things are handled."

Eamon nodded slowly. "Leliana has the right of it. We were not involved, and must be seen to behave accordingly."

"Fine, but just so you know; I can't wait to get home. This place, and the people," Alistair gave an exaggerated shudder, "it makes the Deep Roads look hospitable."

She surveyed his floral ornament with a lurking twinkle. "You don't like anyone you have met here? That_ is_ a pity."

He felt the heat rising in his face, and the fact that she was watching his blush with almost clinical interest made itworse. "So, are we done here? We don't want to be late, do we? Let's go then." Great, so now she was watching him babble too. And now Eamon was eyeballing him; even better.

_-oOo-_

Leon, one of the Senior Gardeners at the Imperial Palace, scuttled through the rose garden as quickly as possible.

The party would start soon, and he would be in trouble if he was found working once it did; the garden was expected to be immaculate and to need no further maintenance until the morrow. He couldn't ignore a note from Her Highness Princesse Madeleina though. Not only was she the Empress' sister, more importantly the Head Gardener approved of her and said she Knew about Roses. So, if she said one of the bushes had a canker and needed to be destroyed, then he had to find it and deal with it. Problem was, he had walked up and down the row six times now and every rose bush was in perfect glowing health. She had been very specific, he was sure this was the right path, so where was the canker?

Eventually he gave up and returned to his quarters, muttering imprecations against the nobility under his breath.

_-oOo-_


	5. Chapter 5

_-oOo-_

Princesse Violetta was extremely displeased.

At the end of the previous evening, she had found the situation to be quite satisfactory.

Her niece Eloise had succumbed to one of her appalling tantrums, which had understandably given King Alistair a disgust of her. News of the girl's sordid death had reached her ears over lunch; she felt sorry for poor Odette, but after all it was her own fault. If her daughter had received the discipline that young people required… but there was no point dwelling on that. Holy Andraste knew that she had advised Odette on several occasions to punish her daughter severely, but the woman was simply not resolute with her children.

Her sister Madeleina had behaved with a disgraceful lack of reserve, naturally repulsive to any person of quality. She had noted that King Alistair had not danced with her and had spoken only a few words to her during the evening. His discernment had raised him in Violetta's esteem; perhaps he was not completely hopeless after all.

Her dear Henriette had used her opportunities well in order to engage his attention. They had been absent together for some time, and when they returned (too late to dance, but one could not have everything) they had obviously reached a comfortable understanding. When she had retired, she was quite in charity with both her daughter and the young king.

Yet today, it appeared that Madeleina had sidled her way into a stronger position that she would have thought possible. How had that scheming hussy managed to ensure that she, their shameful brother Philippe, the King and his red-haired advisor were _all_ wearing the same flowers? It was too marked a coincidence for people to overlook; there were rumours flying around of a secret engagement. Indeed, some of her closest friends had already had the audacity to offer their gleeful commiserations.

And as if that was not enough, she had returned from a visit to the retiring rooms to find that her daughter was nowhere to be seen.

It was all too, too provoking.

_-oOo-_

Leliana wasted no time in rounding up the girls; in a flurry of giggles and whispers she whisked them away to a secluded bower. Here she had ensured that a table and some comfortable chairs were set. Upon the table were a large jug of delicious, seemingly innocuous fruit cup and a set of goblets.

Her stage was set, and she entered with her brace of innocent players.

_-oOo-_

Alistair had suddenly, and inexplicably, become Ser Popular. Having spent most of his life as an outsider, he had often dreamed of being popular when he was a boy. The reality was turning out to be quite unlike the fantasy, particularly considering just how many subjects he wanted to avoid right now, and also taking into account that he didn't trust any of these people as far as he could throw them.

Clusters of young noblemen hailed him, and welcomed him into their ranks; they wanted to talk about his duel, the reasons for his duel, and his combat prowess. One or two of them seemed interested in his prowess in…other ways, and seemed disappointed when he excused himself from their company looking panicky.

Coldly smiling dowagers made thinly veiled enquiries about whether he was secretly affianced to a Certain Young Lady. They used various versions of this code in the asking, but not one of them gave him a name, so he had no idea which Certain Young Lady they were referring to. He was reasonably certain he wasn't secretly engaged to any of them, but it would have been nice to know who they were talking about.

And worst of all, forward young matrons who had previously ignored him now sought his company, and made quite improper suggestions which caused him to blush furiously. One of them, while attempting to press against him, told him that because Eloise had committed suicide for love of him, he was now considered fascinating, dangerous, and exciting. This repulsed him so much that he began to actively avoid areas where they could accost him.

He was running out of places it was safe to stand.

_-oOo-_

The drug she had used was harmless enough, and she had been careful with the measurement. It was one of the Bard's Friends; a small subset of poisons which made a spy's life a little easier, the recipes for which were jealously guarded. The sole purpose of this one was to make people a touch more talkative, more likely to feel at ease and to open up to those they felt comfortable with. It was a gentler, more effective option than alcohol.

It was working beautifully.

Each of the two girls was on their second cup, and they were giggling together over some boy Maddy had a crush on when they were barely out of childhood.

Leliana knew a good cue when she heard it. "Oh, but young boys are so gauche are they not? And pretty rather than handsome, which is cute when one is twelve, but a woman prefers a grown man." She decided to start with what was probably the easier victim. "You are a very beautiful woman Henriette. Surely you have been courted?"

"Oh no, Mama is very strict. It is my duty to marry whomever she selects for me." There was a somewhat doleful note to this that Leliana did not miss.

"But what if the man is not to your liking?"

"Well… I…" Henriette stuttered to a miserable halt.

"She won't have a choice." The bitter response came from Maddy. "It's always so for nobles, and even worse for royalty. Considering who you are an advisor to, you must know this. How much choice has _he_ got?"

This was unexpected, but Leliana was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Alistair must marry it is true, for he must have an heir. But I know him well enough to be sure of one thing, at least. Even if it displeased the Empress, and ruined any chance of friendship between Orlais and Ferelden, he would not take an unwilling wife. He would be horrified by the very idea."

"Truly?" asked Henriette.

"Truly," replied Leliana firmly. "If he knew that a woman really did not want to wed him, he would not offer for her, regardless of how much trouble it caused him."

She gave them time to absorb this statement and observed their responses.

Henriette seemed to revive a little, and took another sip of her drink. Maddy had tucked her legs up on her chair with a fine disregard for her gown, and had her chin on her knees. She was watching Henriette with a heavy and thoughtful frown.

"Henri?" she enquired finally. "Can I ask you a really serious question?"

Henriette looked startled, before offering a wary nod. "What do you want to know?

Maddy hesitated, and then blurted out, "Do you want to marry _anyone_?"

The astuteness that Alistair had seen in Maddy earlier that day was just beginning to dawn on Leliana. She kept her own thoughts hidden, but awaited the answer with keen interest.

"I… I…" Henriette looked so terrified that Maddy jumped back in, rushing her words in an attempt to explain.

"I'm not trying to upset you, or offend you Henri; but I've never seen you have a crush, or show any interest in boys when we were growing up; you've always seemed to prefer books, and you were forever sneaking off to the Chantry. When we were fifteen I was sure you must have a crush on one of the lay brothers, you spent so much time there, but… that wasn't it, was it?"

With her head down, and her hands pressed together in her lap, Henriette shook her head.

"No," she whispered finally.

Leliana put her arm around the forlorn girl. "You wish to be a Sister? You know, I was a lay sister for several years; it was a very happy time for me. You would make an excellent Sister, I think."

"Violetta would go up in smoke at the very idea," Maddy took one of Henriette's hands and squeezed it affectionately, "which has a certain appeal."

Henriette looked up in sudden alarm. "You mustn't say anything to her Madeleina; please I beg you, she would be so angry."

"Not a word," promised Maddy solemnly, and Leliana added her reassurances.

"I will say nothing to your Mama, Henriette. I swear it."

_-oOo-_

In the scented twilight, Philippe leaned against a handy tree and sipped his wine, highly entertained by the spectacle of Alistair being pursued by virtually the whole of Orlesian society. It took some time for mercy to overcome amusement, but eventually he took pity on the wild-eyed young king and hailed him. Alistair responded with a comical amount of relief, and hastened to take advantage of this safe haven.

The Orlesian prince offered him a flourishing bow. "Please accept my congratulations, _mon ami_ - you have come into Fashion. I can only hope that some of your devastating allure may rub off on my unworthy self."

The harassed monarch sputtered indignantly. "You can have it all and welcome. Maker's Breath, what did I do to deserve this? I feel like a cat in a mabari kennel."

Phillippe's shoulders shook slightly. "You must make allowances for them. They cannot resist your manifold charms."

Alistair huffed and bent a mock-glare upon him. "You are a Bad Man, Philippe; I have no idea why I like you."

"Regrettably, Alistair, you are _not_ a Bad Man; but for some peculiar reason I like you anyway."

They stood in companionable silence for a while. Phillippe sipped his drink reflectively, and presently bethought himself of a new way to make his friend's hair stand on end. "Have you noticed, _mon cher,_ that my sister, my niece Henriette and your lovely red-haired assistant are all conspicuously absent?"

"What? No, I've been too busy running away to notice anything. Maker's Blood, you don't think they are… that they…" Alistair regarded Philippe's barely contained mirth with keen displeasure. "It is_ not_ funny."

"Do I think that they are in a feminine huddle comparing notes about you? It seems likely, and yes. I'm afraid it is _very_ funny. Come, let us locate the lair of our ladies and reveal their iniquity."

_-oOo-_

Maddy drank some more of the delicious fruit cup, and put her goblet back on the table.

It had been good to spend time with Henri again. She had left a short time ago, which was a pity, but she had been in a panic over what her mother would say about her prolonged absence. And as for Leliana, she was just so sweet and lovely; she wished one of her sisters was like Leliana.

She spread her arms across the back of the chair, totally relaxed. Across from her, it appeared for a moment that Leliana was listening, her head cocked to one side, before she spoke. "Maddy?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you think is the most important thing a Queen does?"

One of the nice things about Leliana was that she was so interested in the opinions of others. She had asked lots of questions of both her and Henri. "You mean apart from making baby kings?"

"Yes, apart from that."

She closed her eyes and considered it. When the answer came to her it made her smile; it felt so very right. "The most important thing a Queen does is to keep her husband sane."

"A King has to make huge decisions every day, and sometimes they are horrible decisions. He has to take actions that hurt some people in order to save more people. Or decide who to save when there are not enough resources to save everyone." Maddy was no longer smiling; her pointed little face was tender with compassion.

"If the King is a good man, a caring man, then every time he has to make a decision like that it… takes away a piece of him." She sighed sadly. "It makes him less than he is, less than he can be. Until eventually the good, caring man is gone, and all that is left is a King, who can make such decisions far too easily."

She opened her eyes and smiled softly at Leliana. "I think what the Queen has to do is keep him who he is. To remind him that he is trying his best, and that he's still a good man. She has to do that every single day, so he doesn't lose any part of himself."

Leliana reached across the table to take Maddy's hand and gave it a squeeze. "That's a lovely answer, my darling. And now it seems we have company." Leliana gazed over Maddy's shoulder, smiling at the new arrivals. "Alistair, it's so sweet that you came to find us. And your brother is here, Maddy. It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. Would either of you care for a drink?"

_-oOo-_

While Philippe bowed over Leliana's hand, and assured her that he would be delighted and honoured if she called him by his name, Alistair hovered near the table trying to find something, _anything_, to say.

They had arrived around the beginning of that little speech, and he didn't need Leliana's warning look to prevent him from interrupting. He wouldn't have missed a single word of it for anything in the world. It was the sweetest, kindest, wisest thing he had ever heard. It had ripped out of his head any possibility of coherent speech.

He was dimly aware that Philippe had asked Leliana to dance, that she would be delighted, and that they were moving away towards the brighter lights and music in the centre of the gardens. Maddy seemed unconcerned by all of this, utterly unself-conscious about what he may or may not have heard. She patted the chair next to hers invitingly and offered him some kind of fruit drink. He took it and sat down, glad to have something_ normal_ to do.

"So… um… have you been… having a good time?" Dear Maker, was that the best he could do? He buried his burning face in his goblet and took a long drink.

"I've been having a perfectly lovely time talking to Leliana and to Henri. We talked about all kinds of things."

_I'll bet. _

"Henri? Oh, you mean Henriette?"

"Yes, my poor Henri."

"Why is she poor Henri?" Alistair asked absently. He was terribly distracted by the way her hair had been swept up and pinned with three of the red roses. It left her neck exposed with just a single short curl at the nape escaping. His fingers itched to play with that curl. He took another drink so as not to think about it.

Maddy smiled at him trustingly and confided, "Oh, because she wants to be a Chantry Sister, but of course Violetta would never permit it."

That got his attention, "She wants to be a _Sister_?" Wow, that simplified things quite a lot. He finished his drink and poured another. This fruity stuff was really not bad.

Maddy nodded seriously. "Yes, the poor darling. We must all put our heads together and work out how to bypass Violetta to make Henri happy."

He wondered how it had become 'we' so quickly. He knew that the 'we' she was referring to was her and Philippe, and him and Leliana. They had only met yesterday and already it was like… like _family_.

She leaned towards him, green eyes soft and concerned. "Philippe told me about your duel and Eloise. I'm so sorry, it's no wonder you looked dreadfully unhappy this afternoon." She took his hand impulsively and pressed it. "It wasn't your fault, you know. None of it was."

Her hand was so tiny. Her palm was against his palm. Her thumb rubbed comfort into the back of his hand. Closing his fingers round her hand was the easiest thing in the world. Even an idiot like him could manage it. "I… thank you. But I should have kept my temper."

She shook her head in an emphatic negation. "Philippe told me what Raoul said, about how angry it made you. It was a terrible thing for him to say. _Of course_ you were not permitted to take part in such a fight, you were the only thing holding off a civil war. They couldn't risk you. You do understand that, don't you?"

He _understood_ it, but that wasn't the same as _believing_ it. It wasn't sufficient to purge him of blame and guilt. He felt a strong desire to explain, to have her understand. He hadn't discussed this with _anyone_, but then no-one had really asked before.

"There was more to it than that." he glanced up at her, and his pain must have been reflected in his eyes to make her grip his hand so tightly. "There were Grey Warden things… well, suffice to say someone_ had_ to die up there to stop the Blight, and in a way that was my fault, my decision. Melissa was my Commander, she ordered me to stay at the gate, said I had to be King. She and I…" He looked down, wondering how to say it.

Maddy cut in matter-of-factly, "I know about that. It's in the tales that are told of the Blight companions. She was your love. She made you a King, and then ended the Blight."

He nodded, anguished, unable to look at her. "She went up there knowing she would die." His eyes were burning; as though there was acid behind them, waiting to burst free. It had been said in his head a million times, but never out loud, and now it was wrenched from his soul in a tormented cry. "I could have _saved_ her. _I _should have been the one to die. It should have been _me_."

She made a soft sound and stood up swiftly. Next moment she was in front of his chair, arms round his back, rocking him and shushing next to his ear like a mother with her child, as he broke apart for the first time since the funeral.

_-oOo-_

Maddy waited out the storm, arms wrapped round him tightly, feeling as though he would fly apart if she let go. When the worst of it was over she loosened her grip a little, rubbing his back with one hand to soothe him.

After a while muffled words started to emerge, "I'm... sorry… I…"

"Hush, it's fine, it's all fine."

A little more time passed and he stirred, embarrassed. She released him, perched on the arm of his chair and produced a handkerchief.

_-oOo-_

Alistair mopped his face and laughed shakily, limp with emotional release. "Of all the places to fall apart, this has to be the worst."

"Pff, you think you have it bad. I fell flat on my face and screamed 'shit' at an Imperial Ball yesterday, if you remember."

He snorted and managed a watery grin, grateful for her light banter. "It was the first sign of flesh and blood humanity I'd seen all day. I can't tell you what a relief it was."

The smile she gave him was warm and fond. "I thought you would behave just like any other stuck-up imbecile at Court. Instead you picked me up, dusted me down and made sure I wasn't hurt. And you didn't judge me at all." Her voice became softer, "I could do no less in return."

Alistair didn't feel the two were even a little bit comparable. What she had just done for him… He'd never been rocked and shushed over and… well… mothered before. Not ever. It was like being wrapped in a big soft blanket.

She chuckled, her nose wrinkling in amusement. "I felt like a little girl who had fallen down; being picked up and comforted by her father. It was so out-of-place and unexpected I wanted to laugh, but it was nice and I appreciated it."

Alright, perhaps there was _some_ comparison.

She was perched on the arm of his chair, angled towards him. The curl was still there at the nape of her neck. He reached up and twisted it around his finger, and she shivered slightly at the brush of his hand. They sat like that awhile, not feeling the need to speak.

He was still playing with the curl and she hadn't protested at all, so maybe it was time to push his luck. He released it and dropped his hand to her waist instead, pulling gently so she slipped into the chair with him, and tucked her against his side. She seemed to have no problem with that either, in fact she even moved her arm so it draped comfortably across his shoulders and rested her other hand on his chest, just above his heart.

"Maddy?"

She shifted a little, turning to face him more. "Yes?"

"Thank you; for… being there for me. Truly, I mean it. You are the best thing that has happened to me since I got to this Maker-forsaken country, and I can't tell you how grateful I am." He grinned crookedly, "And your brother is the next best; you are the two most genuine people I've met here, the only ones who have shown any interest in anyone other than themselves."

Her lips quirked in sudden mischief. "You should have said earlier, Philippe will be delighted. He thinks you are gorgeous."

"He… he's… really?" Alistair blushed furiously at the memory of how close together they had sat in the steam room earlier, wearing only a scrap of linen. In fairness though, the man was no Zevran; there had never been the slightest trace of innuendo in his manner.

"I believe the word he used was scrumptious. Should I tell him you're interested?" she asked teasingly.

Her head was next to his, he could feel her breath on his cheek, the warmth and weight of her all down his right side. If he turned his head just… so, then his mouth was almost touching hers. "I can tell him myself, if you like. I'll need to go see him tomorrow, anyway."

He could feel her trembling against him, wide green eyes searching his face. "Oh?" she murmured. "And why is that?" He reached up with his free hand to touch her face, trailing his finger from her cheekbone to her jaw. She closed her eyes and caught her breath slightly.

He moved even closer, so his answer was almost against her lips. "I'll need his permission before I can ask you to marry me." Before she could respond he closed the tiny distance between them and kissed her gently, cupping her face with one hand and tightening his hold around her waist with the other. He didn't think she had been kissed before; her lips were passive at first and for a moment he was afraid he had gone too fast. Then her mouth was moving against his, her fingers tangled in his hair to pull him closer, and it was perfect.

_-oOo-_

It was her first real kiss; when they broke apart, Maddy felt like she'd been running - her breathing was a little fast, and she was unusually warm. It had definitely been enjoyable, and she wanted to try it again, but their compromising position was beginning to dawn on her. Unconventional though she was, even she baulked at being found sprawled all over the King of Ferelden at an Imperial garden party. The chances of their secluded nook being discovered were increasing the longer they were here.

Getting out of the chair might be tricky though; it was a low slung, cushioned, wicker affair, and she didn't exactly have a lot of experience at extricating herself from a chair she was sharing with a man. She could feel the heat and hard muscle of his chest and leg where she was pressed against him. Any attempt on her part to exit the chair would require a certain amount of pushing and wriggling, and even the thought made her blush a little.

She compromised on both fronts by kissing him on the nose and asking for help. "Alistair, unless you're keen to have someone turn up and gawk at us, we need to move. Help me up, please; I think I'm stuck."

His smile was warm and mischievous and did nothing for her resolution. "Oh? So you can't get away?" His arm tightened round her waist. "I think that works fine for me."

She started to protest weakly, "Alist-" but before she could finish he'd slipped his other hand under her knees and stood up with her in his arms as though she weighed nothing. Maker, the man was strong.

"Is that better?"

It was very nice actually, but saying so might not be a good plan right this minute. "Well, it's still going to be a talking point if we go back to the party like this, so perhaps you should put me down."

He clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. "You are so picky." He set her on her feet; she surveyed her crumpled dress and wondered why they were bothering. It was all going to be a bit obvious.

There was _one_ thing she definitely didn't want to be obvious though. She squinted up at him and checked the damage. "Before we go anywhere populated, we should find a fountain, so you can wash your face. I don't want those vultures knowing that you've been upset."

"Oh… it shows?" His vulnerability peeped out, making her want more than ever to protect him. If any of those over-dressed wastes of space so much as looked at him squiggle-eyed, she would claw their eyes out.

"Only a bit, but you know what they're like. Come on, let's make you presentable." She tucked her arm through his and they left their little bower and set off along the dimly lit paths, staying away from the noise and light of the main event.

As they walked through the paths of the garden, heavy with the scents of night blooming flowers, Maddy found that for the first time this evening she had a little space to think. It was starting to occur to her just what a frightening position she had got herself into. It seemed probable that tomorrow this man would propose to her and that if she accepted him then her whole life would change. She would have to leave everything; her home, her garden, even Philippe and go to a strange country to marry a man she barely knew.

_I've only known him for what… 24 hours or so? Maker's Blood, what am I doing?_

But this was how it happened in her world. In fact, this was far better than usual; most nobles got their spouse selected for them, and might not even meet them until their wedding day. She had been lucky; because her parents were dead and she lived far from court with her easygoing brother she had got away with it, so far. Now the Empress' eye had fixed upon her, she knew those days were numbered, whatever she decided.

She peeped up at him surreptitiously as they cut down another path towards the distant tinkling of a fountain. She had never met anyone like him before; he was so natural, so _real_. He was warm and sweet, and totally unconcerned with his own status. Yet Philippe said that he had cut down Raoul with a cool precision he had never seen before. She couldn't imagine him being violent, it was mindboggling.

The noise of water had been growing louder and now they came to the fountain; circular, with a low marble wall around it and a confection of cherubs in the middle spouting water from various orifices. He sat on the wall and trailed the tips of his fingers in the fountain before turning back to face her. She fished out the handkerchief he had mangled earlier, dipped it in the water, and wrung it out. She stood in front of him, between his legs, and dabbed the damp cloth over his face, pressing it gently against his eyes to reduce swelling. She wanted to erase as much evidence of his breakdown as possible.

That was another thing, she mused. Was he still in love with the Hero of Ferelden? He still grieved for her, which was perfectly understandable, but if he still loved her then how would it affect his marriage?

He had been sat with his face turned up to her, eyes closed, passively submitting to her ministrations, but now he interrupted her train of thought by putting a hand on each side of her waist, opening his eyes and smiling at her in _such_ a way. In that moment, she realised exactly how intimate it was to just stand here and wash him; this was not something one did with a person one hardly knew. She was so comfortable with him, it simply hadn't occurred to her it was at all odd.

Still… she _had_ wanted another try at kissing.

Bending her head, she took his face in her hands and gently pressed her mouth to his. She thought she knew what to expect this time, but his reaction took her by surprise. One of his hands roaming up her back, he pulled her towards him and returned her kiss with far more passion than last time. His tongue ran gently over her lips and she opened to him instinctively, allowing him to twine his tongue with hers. She could feel the heat of his chest against her stomach, his thighs touching her legs. It made her _want_, but she wasn't sure what it was she wanted, it was an ache, a need she had never felt before. When they broke apart, his breathing was harsher and his eyes were dark, so perhaps he had felt the same.

He touched her bottom lip with his finger, and his expression was like the ache she had felt, and for a moment she felt it again.

He cleared his throat and stood up, tucking her hand back into his arm. "Perhaps we should get back to the others before they send out a search party." He smiled down at her and her heart skipped. "I don't want your brother challenging me to a duel for abducting you."

_-oOo-_


	6. Chapter 6

_-oOo-_

Alistair and Maddy emerged together from a dimly lit path into a blaze of light and music and blinked, blinded for a moment by the sudden change. _Which is probably a mercy_, thought Philippe, as Maddy's crumpled dress, mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips were surveyed and assessed by the gathered ranks of Orlesian nobility. _At least they are spared from feeling like an exhibit._

He moved forward swiftly to intercept their attention before they could become aware of the battery of eyes upon them, "Alistair, I must protest. I leave you alone with my sister for half an hour and you can't prevent her from falling into a bush? Maddy, my sweet, I have to inform you that this new look of yours is nothing less than catastrophic."

She responded with her usual vast indifference to sartorial elegance, "I thought it might be. I'd better go and tidy up I suppose." Releasing Alistair's arm with a certain amount of reluctance, she set off to find the nearest retiring room.

The Ferelden King watched her until she was out of sight before turning to her brother with unusual formality, "Would it be convenient for me to call upon you tomorrow morning Philippe?"

"I could just wish you every happiness now, _mon ami_. It will save a great deal of trouble, no?"

Alistair shook his head and grimaced nervously, "I haven't asked her yet. I wanted your permission first. You are her guardian I take it?"

Philippe shrugged, "I am; not that it counts for much. She will do as she pleases. And really my friend, what are you going to do when you come to see me? Inform me of your prospects?"

Alistair's attempt at sober formality crumbled in the face of this assault, and he grinned, "I guess that's true. Crowns tend to make for good marital prospects, don't they? I knew there had to be _some_ advantage to having one. So, does this mean you don't mind?"

"If she wants you then you have my blessing. I shall be very pleased to call you my brother," Philippe frowned direfully and continued with great relish, "and if she doesn't then I shall be having a severe chat with my sister about the dreadful impropriety of kissing kings at garden parties."

_-oOo-_

Eamon did not share Philippe's belief that a crown trumped all. In fact he didn't know which horrified him most; that Alistair intended to offer for such an unconventional young woman, or that he intended to do so without discussing dowry and contracts with her brother.

Alistair's evident affection for Madeleina went some way to reconciling him to the former, and after all she _was_ the sister of the Empress which would create a strong alliance between the two nations, but nothing at all would reconcile him to the latter.

After Alistair had murmured the news in his ear, impressing upon him the need for secrecy until the morning when the formal offer could be made and the outcome made certain, he lost no time in seeking out Philippe and attempting to make an appointment for the afternoon so that the details could be thrashed out.

That insouciant young man remained unperturbed and recommended that he should raise the matter with Empress Celene. As she had promoted the match, he claimed, it seemed likely that she had her own ideas on the subject. Eamon was left without any option but to bow and accept the situation for the moment, while privately reflecting that it was a pity Philippe's slippery grace had not rubbed off on his sister.

He returned to Alistair and suggested to him that, in the event of Princesse Madeleina accepting his offer, they would do well to ensure that the Empress was informed immediately.

_-oOo-_

Leliana was dancing when the dishevelled couple emerged from their sylvan lair and, once the dance finally ended, it took her a little time to extricate herself from the blandishments of the rather charming young aristocrat who had led her onto the floor. Having ditched him without wounding his feelings, she wasted no time in seeking out a certain Warden, who was looking distinctly less confident now that the effects of the Bard's Friend were beginning to wear off.

She ran an amused and eloquent eye over his rumpled doublet and flattened rosebud, and he sputtered into speech, "Damn it Leliana, what? If you are about to lecture me about valets again, spare me please." He grinned like a little boy who has stolen his sister's doll to tease her, "_My_ clothes are immaculate…relatively speaking."

"I saw. Can I wish you happy then?"

The grin vanished, the nerves returning in force, "I haven't actually proposed yet. I wanted Philippe's permission first, so I don't think it can happen until morning." He chewed a nail, ruining the heroic efforts of the aforementioned valet even further, "Maker's Breath Leliana, what if she refuses me? I hope you are going to stay up drinking with me tonight, because I swear I won't be able to sleep a wink. Where's Oghren when I need him?" He sniggered, distracted by his own blether, "Now I'm picturing Oghren at this party, possibly dancing with Violetta, what do you think?"

"What I think is that Maddy would not lead you on, she's not that kind of person. Calm down Alistair; let's get you a drink to help you relax. You'll want to dance with her when she gets back I assume? Then we need to settle these nerves, you'll trip over your own feet in this mood."

"I do that anyway. Dancing masters can only work with the raw talent they are given, which in my case was none at all."

He accepted the drink she procured from a servant passing with a tray. She had no difficulty in dropping a small dose into it without him observing; just enough to ensure he didn't stick his foot in his mouth from sheer nerves and screw up all her benign machinations.

_-oOo-_

The rest of the evening had passed without any major incidents; such calamities as dance floor collisions and idiotic pronouncements having been averted by the incredible calming effects of a goblet of wine.

Unfortunately no further opportunities for private speech occurred either, and Eamon inexorably led Alistair away from Maddy after they had danced, in an attempt to reduce the wagging tongues of the gossips, leaving her to endure the gentle teasing of her brother instead.

Now, as predicted, Alistair couldn't sleep. The last two days had been too hectic, too emotional, and he just couldn't get his thoughts under control. He leant on the rail of his balcony, enjoying the cold night air biting through his thin shirt after the unnatural warmth of the gardens, and revelling in the unusual solitude. He could hear servants and the night guards in the courtyard two floors below, but they were remote, unconnected.

_In a few hours I'm going to propose to a woman I barely know._

It felt unreal, but then this entire trip felt unreal, Val Royeaux felt unreal. In fact the only thing that did not feel unreal was Maddy herself, which was the single reassuring aspect to the whole situation.

_I don't love her…but I could._

If he was able to court her like any normal man would, then he knew he would be feeling all the fresh promise of a brand new romance; the anticipation of discovering her, of gently unfurling her petals, of growing to know her both mentally and physically, and of offering himself to her in the same way. By contrast, the prospect of having to do all this with a woman who was already his wife had a harsh finality to it which chilled him to the bone. If the relationship foundered before their journey had truly begun, bailing out was not an option. They would be stuck with each other, come what may.

_Assuming she accepts me at all…_

Alistair rubbed his face with his hands, weary beyond measure and went back inside to find a drink, a book, anything to distract him. It was going to be a very long night.

_-oOo-_

"Your Highnesses, His Majesty King Alistair of Ferelden is here to see you."

Madeleina's hands were clenched together, her stomach twisted in knots. She looked up beseechingly at her brother, who nodded and went into the hall with the manservant to greet Alistair, shutting the sitting room door behind him. She really, really hoped Philippe would keep his tongue between his teeth this morning. If he exercised his wit at their expense, she may have to wallop him with one of those ridiculous embroidery frames scattered around the place.

Murmured voices drifted in from the hall and she looked down at her tightly clasped hands. When she had got back from the party, she had been confident she was doing the right thing, coasting on the memory of how comfortable they had been together. Morning had brought the crashing reality that if she accepted him, then her whole life was about to change. She would go to a strange country to be the wife of a man she barely knew. She didn't even know how he felt about all this or, most importantly, about her.

_Dear Maker, help me_.

The door handle turned and Philippe entered with Alistair behind him. She got up from her seat to greet him, her legs trembling so much she could barely stand. He came forward to take her hand, and she managed to unclasp hers in order to offer him one. She took her first proper look at him as he murmured a greeting and kissed her hand. Her tense fears were reflected in his face; in the dark smudges under his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. She offered him a seat and, when he lowered himself onto one end of the sofa she had vacated, she sat at the other end, painfully aware of the empty gulf between them.

"Maddy, Alistair, I will be in the next room when you need me," Philippe passed through to the adjoining salon, giving her a reassuring smile before closing the door.

Her hands had merged back into their previous tense bundle; she was too self-conscious to look directly at him.

An awkward silence ensued.

Alistair cleared his throat, and she finally looked up at him. His face was burning with embarrassment, but he looked determined, "Maddy, you know why I'm here, right? I…I wish I could do this properly, the way it's supposed to be done, but there's something you have to know before I can…ask you. Because it may affect what you decide."

She wasn't at all sure she liked the sound of that. She would have asked him what he meant, but her throat appeared to have closed, so she settled for an enquiring look and waited for him to continue.

"I…well; you know that I must have an heir. It's why Eamon arranged this whole thing in the first place," he stopped short, apparently realising how that must sound, "not that I wouldn't want to…with you…just not so…"

He took a breath and let it out, "Let me try that again. I have to marry, because I need to try to secure the succession. And the problem is, the thing you need to know is, that it may be difficult. Being a Grey Warden means that some things change about you and one of them is that it's much harder for me to have children. Not impossible, just…not easy."

The troubled sincerity in his eyes touched her, "I needed you to know that first; I wouldn't feel it was fair otherwise. Children may be important to you," he looked wistful, "they are to me, but it's possible we won't have any."

She swallowed to get her throat working and managed, "I see. Thank you for telling me." She wasn't even sure how much difference this made, if any. There was no time to think about it, to let it sink in.

He looked relieved to have got that out of the way, followed by tense all over again as he prepared for the next hurdle. Maddy felt a twinge of sympathy for him, she was finding this hard enough, but really all the burden in this situation fell on the man.

He moved along the sofa, closer to her and took her hand. She was conscious of his sheer male presence, he took up a sizable chunk of sofa, and his hand engulfed hers. His fine wool trousers strained over the muscles in his thighs, and the blue velvet doublet he wore over a soft white shirt emphasized the width of his shoulders. He smelt of soap and his own fresh musky scent; she wanted to bury her face in his throat and breathe it in. If only they could just sit together and _be_, then everything would be fine.

But instead he was speaking again, pushing their lives forward, "Maddy… Madeleina, I know the situation is not ideal. I am very aware, as you must be, of how little time we have known each other, of how…how artificial the circumstances are," he was watching her, eyes almost green now, the colour affected by his tense mood, "but I really do believe we can be happy together. You are sweet, kind and caring, and whatever you decide I will owe you a debt of gratitude for the time we have spent together."

He shifted from the sofa to the floor, moving to one knee, taking up the classic position of a supplicant, still holding her hand. She hated it, wanted him on his feet, and wished she could just stand up, haul him up and kiss him. Stop this madness, do something _real_ instead.

"Madeleina, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

And now the burden switched to her. He was gazing at her; she could see the vulnerability in his eyes, what it cost him to do this. But she had to know, she couldn't answer otherwise. She reached out with her free hand and touched his hair, his face, seeking for something solid and alive, instead of a scene from some romantic painting.

"Alistair, come sit down. I have to ask you something," she pulled at his hand and he slipped into the seat next to her, half turned to her, knee touching hers. He was waiting, wondering what she needed; worried she was going to refuse him. All this was clear to her.

"What I need to know," she stopped, wondering how to ask this correctly, how to express what was in her mind. "What I need to know is this. If we were two normal people, who didn't have to marry for kingdoms and heirs and…well…you know…all this _nonsense_," she paused to ensure he knew what she meant. He nodded, so she took a deep breath and continued, "Then…would you still want me? I don't mean to offer for after two days, which is _insane_, but…to be with."

She was leaving herself wide open with this question, she knew it. Even though she trusted him to be kind about it, she still couldn't look at him now in case there was nothing there, nothing that was actually for _her_. So she kept her gaze fixed on the hand that was still holding hers, waiting for an answer.

There was a touch on her hair, gentle fingers brushing back a curl from her forehead. They reached under her chin and raised her head so she had to look at him. For the first time today he was smiling, really smiling with genuine affection, warm hazel eyes blazing with feeling, with truth.

She smiled back tremulously, relieved tears ready to spill, "Yes Alistair. In that case my answer is yes."

He let out the breath he'd been holding and stood up, pulling her to her feet, "Good, fantastic in fact, now I can do what I've been wanting to ever since I got here." His arms surrounded her; he bent his head and kissed her thoroughly. She returned the kiss, arms around his neck, he was warm and solid and the surreal dream-like feeling receded.

As the nervous tension broke she started to giggle against his mouth; he stopped to murmur against her lips, "What's set you off now?"

She moved her head a little so she could speak properly, "Nothing really, I'm just so relieved to have that behind us. And I was thinking that you weren't the only one who wanted to do that. I nearly hauled you up off your knees to kiss you."

"I wish you had, the tension was killing me," his mouth was against her hair, "I guess we should tell Philippe, huh?"

"I suppose so. But I'd like to take a few minutes first to be alone. I don't think we'll have many more chances for a while." She pulled him back onto the sofa and curled up against his side; he wrapped an arm around her and she dropped her head on his chest, feeling his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, happy to be ordinary people for a little while. They sat like that for some time, letting the stress bleed away.

_-oOo-_


	7. Chapter 7

_-oOo-_

There must have been times in his life when he had felt more relieved, but right now Alistair couldn't think of any. She hadn't rejected him. The only woman who he had felt _anything_ for since Melissa died had just agreed to marry him and was now curled up against his chest.

"Alistair?" her voice was a little muffled, being somewhat adjacent to his doublet.

"Hmm?"

"What other horrors do we have to face today?"

"You mean other than spending the morning looking like the lid of an overpriced box of chocolates?"

That surprised a giggle out of her and she nodded, raising her head. "That's almost exactly what I was thinking before; that we looked like one of those slushy romantic paintings. Yes, apart from that. Do we have to be paraded around?"

"We have to let the Empress know, at least officially. If previous form is anything to go by we could probably just leave one of her spies to report this entire conversation, but perhaps not."

"Is that all?"

"I'm not sure. Eamon was fussing last night about contracts and dowries and suchlike. I'm guessing that once we have announced the engagement to Celene, he will pick up that side of things with whoever is acting on your behalf," he rubbed his hand through his hair, thinking through the process, "Once all that is settled, then we will have to go to the Chantry and take our betrothal oaths to uphold the contract, but that's not likely to be until tomorrow at the earliest."

"So, we'll have some spare time today?"

"It seems probable. Why? What are you planning?"

"Have you seen any of Val Royeaux yet?"

"Are you kidding? I haven't set foot outside the palace grounds since we got here," he tucked an escaping curl behind her ear, "Are you offering to show me around?"

She shook her head, her expression that of a child let out of school early, "I don't know my way around, but Philippe does. And I bet Leliana does too. Can we all escape for a while do you think?"

At the thought of getting out of this Imperial hothouse, a bubble of excitement welled up in his chest, "That, my sweet, is the finest idea I have heard since I left Ferelden. Perhaps it's time we let your brother into the room and broke the news to him huh?"

She ducked out from under his arm and unfolded herself from the sofa. While she went to let Philippe in, Alistair considered what she had suggested. Could they just walk around like that in the city? They would take guards of course, but it might turn into a farcical parade, rather than a pleasant expedition. The other option was to go out in disguise, something he did in Denerim sometimes.

"Well _mes chers_, may I wish you happy?"

Alistair's grin was rather proud, "You may."

Maddy ran to Philippe and he pulled her into a tight hug, squeezing until she squeaked a protest, "I wish you very happy. And you will be, I think." He kissed his sister's cheek, released her and offered his hand to Alistair, who shook it warmly. "Congratulations my brother-to-be, she will make you an excellent wife," Philippe grinned wickedly, "and a very interesting Queen. Don't let her turn up to state functions covered in mud and all will be well, I am sure."

Maddy punched her brother on the arm in response to that dig, "Philippe, we want to see Val Royeaux. Will you come with us?"

"Of a surety I will, my dear ones. Are we to promenade in a grand manner to entertain street urchins, or skulk from shadow to shadow like feral cats? I am at your disposal."

"You catch on quick Philippe," approved Alistair, "That's exactly the question I wanted to ask you. I know what I'd do in Denerim, but I don't know what it's like here."

Philippe turned to his sister, "_Ma_ _chérie_, which parts of Val Royeaux do you desire to visit? Do you want to rub shoulders with nobles or with the _canaille_?"

Maddy looked wistful, "I _don't_ want to be a princess and a king out for a stroll in the park, we can do that here. I want to walk round shops, and sit in a tavern and be with my fiancé, and you, and Leliana. I want to celebrate our engagement like a _normal_ person would."

Alistair hugged her in enthusiastic agreement, "That's easy then. I'll grab a few of my own guards and I'll wear some of their armour. You can too if you wish Philippe. Then we are merely a bunch of off-duty guardsmen, with their ladies and we can move pretty freely. I'll feel more comfortable armed and armoured, so I can look after Maddy if there's any trouble."

Philippe thought it over, "That should be acceptable. Are we to go immediately?"

Alistair shook his head, "I have to let Eamon know about the engagement, and arrange for the Empress to be informed. Once that's settled, I'll send a servant to let you know."

_-oOo-_

The gorgeous strains of the harp emanating from the sitting room informed Alistair of the whereabouts of one of his advisors at least. The moment he entered the music stopped abruptly.

"You're back! So, how did it go?" Leliana enquired somewhat anxiously.

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her, "You're not stressed at all are you Leliana? I seem to remember you telling me not to worry, and that it would be fine."

"Yes, I did, now _tell me_ or I promise you I will write a ballad about your beauty and grace, and sing it at Court_ every_ _day _when we get back."

Now that was a truly nasty threat, "Ouch, you wouldn't, would you?" he grinned, before relenting in the face of her awful frown, "Alright, alright I submit. You can congratulate me, I'm to be married."

She squealed and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him over his shocked protests, "Leliana, what…stop…Maker's Breath woman, let me go."

"Oh, I'm so happy for you, I must go see Maddy and congratulate her too."

Alistair extricated himself from the overjoyed bard, and resettled his rumpled doublet. "Well, I'm rather hoping you will see her later anyway. We want to go out and see Val Royeaux; we were thinking you might want to come along."

Leliana beamed with delight, "I would love to show you Val Royeaux, it would be a terrible crime to come here and not see the city. When are we going?"

"Today I hope, but I have to get some things done first. Do you know where Eamon is?"

"Here, my boy. Do you have news for me?" Alistair turned to find Eamon just entering the room with a sheaf of parchments and a weary frown.

"I've offered for Maddy and she has accepted me. I'm going to be married." It was starting to sink in a bit with these announcements. Married, I'm to be married. The memory of her curled against his side comforted him that it might not be too scary.

"Congratulations Alistair, I must say I'm glad to have that settled. I'll draft a note to the Empress for you to sign; I imagine she may wish to see you both."

"I was hoping to take Maddy out to see the sights today, so if possible can you arrange it for tomorrow?"

Eamon raised his eyebrows, "You are going out into the city? Taking your betrothed shopping in the nobles' quarter I assume. You are taking guards I hope?"

Alistair tried his best to look innocent; he knew full well that Eamon would _not _approve of a plan to roam around a foreign city in disguise. "Oh yes, I'll take plenty of guards."

_-oOo-_

An hour later they all met in the outer courtyard of the palace.

Philippe had elected to wear a battered, comfortable-looking leather jerkin rather than armour, and had a couple of daggers sheathed on his hips. Both ladies wore simple dresses. If Leliana had weapons upon her person, they were not visible. Alistair wore the same dragon-bone partial splint as the rest of the King's Own, his personal guards, with a plain sword and a shield bearing their insignia. This was the traditional insignia of the Kings of Ferelden, two dogs rampant supporting a golden crown, but done in the Grey Warden colours of blue and white in honour of their king's background.

There was a festive air to the whole party; the King's Own had been getting restless penned up in the Imperial barracks and were glad of an opportunity to have some fun. Alistair had a grin so wide the top of his head appeared in danger of falling off, while Leliana and Maddy were giggling together like a couple of empty-headed young girls. Only Philippe appeared his usual poised, faintly amused self.

In this holiday mood they sallied forth to take on Val Royeaux.

_-oOo-_

Maddy sipped her wine and leant against Alistair's side. Leaning into armour was not the most comfortable thing in the world, but nothing could burst her bubble today.

It had been the most glorious day of freedom.

They had strolled through the enormous Val Royeaux market, browsing a fabulous selection of wares from all over Thedas. Technological qunari marvels from Par Vollen; graceful Antivan glass ornaments; rare magical objects from the Imperium; glittering pure gold jewellery from Rivain; fine silk cloth from here in Orlais.

And everywhere there was food. Sweet pastries, roasted meats basted in wine, sweetmeats and chocolates and – to Alistair's enormous delight – entire stalls devoted to fine cheese. He had spent a significant amount of time tasting cheeses and then placed a massive order to be sent up to the palace. 'To be delivered to my master King Alistair' he'd declared airily while his men smothered grins. Maddy had bought sweets and chocolates as gifts for all the Kings Own, endearing her to them immediately. She and Leliana had exclaimed over jewellery, and Alistair had bought Maddy a pretty gold necklace of delicate leaves and vines that was now twined around her throat.

Their party were all tucked into two corner tables of the large tavern; a plain dinner had been consumed, and they were settling down to make an evening of it. Minstrels played in the gallery above, but could barely be heard above the babble of voices, the clink of tankards and goblets. Smoke curled in the air from men's pipes and from the roaring fires at either end of the room.

Several of Alistair's ten handpicked men were playing cards together; some, including Philippe, were listening to one of Leliana's stories, and one or two were flirting with tavern wenches. Maddy was interested to note that some of the women in the tavern were sitting on the men's knees, in full public view of the room. If this was _de rigueur_ around these parts, then she was certainly not averse to the idea, although she wasn't sure how Alistair was going to take it. He had demonstrated a disappointing prudish streak today when it came to public displays of affection, happy to hold her hand as they walked around, but no more than that.

_-oOo-_

Despite telling a rich complex tale of love and betrayal, Leliana had little difficulty keeping tabs on everything else going on around her. Maddy's delight in their surroundings was sweet to watch, and Alistair looked more like the carefree Grey Warden of old than she had seen in a long time.

She was also fascinated to note that one or two of Alistair's men were surreptitiously giving Philippe some admiring looks. The beautiful auburn-haired prince had been propositioned by a number of the women present, but had slid away from their attentions with his usual easy grace. He was now leaning back in his chair, one booted leg elegantly crossed over the other, sipping wine and watching his sister's antics with amused tolerance. She moved her eyes to where he was looking and laughed under her breath. Maker's Blood, what was that innocent child doing to poor Alistair?

_-oOo-_

When Maddy stood up from her place on the bench they shared, Alistair thought she was going to the latrines, and was about to arrange a guard to go with her. Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and slid sideways onto his knee. He blushed pinkly at such a public display, but didn't really see a way to protest without offending her, and no-one else seemed bothered. They were here incognito after all, and this was perfectly normal behaviour for a guard and his lady in such an environment. _I suppose_ w_e may as well enjoy the moment_.

Which was all well and good, but when he curled one arm around her waist, she correctly took this as a sign that she was welcome to remain on her perch and started _wriggling_ to get comfortable. He suddenly wished he'd worn full splint rather than the partial that was usual for an off-duty troop; the absence of faulds and codpiece left him all too aware of every movement. He breathed a relieved sigh when she settled, but she soon found a new way to unknowingly torment him.

She was looking round the room with keen interest, attention not particularly on him at all, but her arm was around his shoulders and her fingers began to absently trail up and down the back of his neck. Tips of her fingers ran up from the edge of his armour to his hairline, and then her nails gently scraped back down his neck. It sent delicious shivers all down his back and left him quite unable to think about anything else. Well, that wasn't _strictly_ true, but everything he was thinking about was definitely connected to those trailing fingers.

_-oOo-_

It took Maddy a few minutes to notice the effect she was having on her fiancé. She turned to Alistair to point out a man on the other side of the room who was wearing a most ridiculous purple hat, and discovered his eyes half-closed and mouth slightly open. Her fingers had just reached his nape, when she trailed her nails back down a sigh escaped him and he arched his back a tiny bit.

Innocent she might be, but the power of a woman over a man is innate, and she could no more resist trying it out than she could stop breathing. Her hand drifted around his neck and up behind his ear to scratch gently at the delicate skin there before scraping her nails down his throat to the hollow above his armour line. His head moved to accommodate her hand, ending tipped back with mouth still softly opened.

It would have taken a stronger woman than Maddy to resist that posture. She leaned over and gently bit his full lower lip, grazing her mouth over his jaw to his throat, breathing in the musky male scent of him, and kissing up the line her fingers had followed, sliding her tongue behind his ear. She felt his whole body react, arching against her as he gasped; then his hand was on the back of her neck, moving her head gently away to look into her eyes.

"Maddy, we can't…not here, not now; …you don't know what you're doing to me," his voice was roughened, dragging over the words in a way that tantalised her.

She thought she might have _some_ idea; that last reaction of his had sparked an instantaneous response in her, but he was right and she knew it. Sitting on his knee in a tavern was one thing, exploring each other was something else, and fun though it was now was not the time or the place.

She took his face in her hands and gave him a quick apologetic kiss, "You're right, I'm sorry."

He looked a touch surprised, she wasn't sure why, and his arm around her waist tightened.

_-oOo-_

When the noise in the tavern reached the raucous stage, Alistair caught Philippe's eye and nodded, judging it was time to leave. Five minutes earlier and they might have got away clean, but while drinks were being finished by some, others were picking up their gear, and their shield insignias drew the notice of the group at the next table.

"Hey, Fereldens! What, did you tire of the pure air up at the palace? Or did your king send you down here to get him some whores?" The hail from a burly man was cheerful enough, with scattered laughter from his fellows. Mercenaries by the look of them - armour in good condition but not a uniform - all wearing black scarves with a white crescent moon insignia knotted on their arm.

Cedric opened his mouth to make a bland reply, carefully not looking at his King. Unfortunately one of the other mercenaries, a dark haired young lad looking to impress his fellows, stuck his foot in his mouth first. "Ha! He won't be needing whores; I hear the noble tarts are queuing up for your king, even though he had one killed when he'd finished with her." At which point Maddy sprang up and slapped him hard across the mouth, bursting into furious Orlesian speech that Alistair didn't understand at all, although he caught his own name. Everyone froze in astonishment, then Philippe groaned and the enraged boy leapt to his feet.

The room was cramped, and Maddy stood between a tangle of vacated chairs, so the guards couldn't easily or quickly get close enough to protect her. Only Alistair stood directly beside her and so, when the infuriated mercenary snarled a response and lifted his arm to backhand her, it was Alistair who punched him.

It appeared that the situation was going to get quite ugly.

Having dropped the immediate threat, Alistair's first need was to get Maddy out of danger. He managed this by the simple expedient of picking her up bodily, and swinging her across the long table behind him to where Philippe could grab her.

Various mercenaries were surging to their feet and grabbing weapons, while the King's Own were doing the same. Alistair's men had the edge; at least half of them were already standing and armed, as they had been ready to leave, and although they had been drinking, none of them were drunk. Their first priority was the protection of their King and his future Queen, so while the mercenaries were preparing for a bar brawl, the King's Own were kicking chairs and tables out of their way and forming up around Alistair. By the time the mercenaries were ready to attack they found themselves facing not a drunken set of off-duty guards, but an organised bodyguard in a diamond formation around a single man, one who looked perfectly capable of handling himself without all that protection.

A blond mercenary snapped out an order, and some of his group stepped back while others protested. He rapped out another fast sentence in Orlesian, and grumbling they sheathed their weapons.

The King's Own remained on alert, but made no hostile moves. Alistair nodded to the man who gave the orders, "You are their Captain I take it?"

The thick-set blond man's low bow demonstrated that he suspected who he was facing, "Yes Y…yes sieur, I apologise for the boy; he is young and stupid." The lad scowled, but kept his head down in the face of his Captain's glare.

Alistair's mouth curved a touch, "We all were once. I commend you on your control of your troop."

The Captain's bow was deeper still, but with a touch of pride, "We are _La Lune Blanche_, the White Moon Company sieur, and I am humbled by your praise… and your clemency."

"Not at all. Here," Alistair passed him a handful of coins, "get your men a drink to wash the taste of this unpleasantness away. We were about to leave, so I'll bid you farewell."

"Many thanks sieur, we will drink to your very good health."

Alistair smiled ruefully and held out his hand to Maddy, who stood between Philippe and Leliana, looking mutinous. She moved to his side and he brought her hand to his lips. "You may drink to my impending nuptials Captain, Maker help me."

_-oOo-_

"But Philippe, what else was I to do when he said such dreadful things about Alistair?" asked Maddy. Her tone suggested that she considered her behaviour to have been perfectly reasonable, and Alistair squeezed her hand, not exactly agreeing but finding it hard to blame her for championing him so fiercely.

"If you intend to slap every drunken sot in Ferelden who spouts disparaging nonsense about his monarch, then you will be very busy _ma_ _chérie, _and also tediously predictable. And I daresay Alistair may prefer it if his Queen does _not _fling insults in the teeth of the hoi polloi, hmm? "

They were walking up the grand avenue to the gates of the palace now, but the bickering between the siblings had been going on for some time. Alistair sidled over to Leliana and murmured, "What _did_ she say to him?"

Leliana giggled "As I recall, something along the lines of '_How dare you say such things of Alistair, you slimy pigdog_'. She has a temper it seems."

"So it appears. There'll be fun and games when the Bannorn start picking on me at the next Landsmeet. Much though I'd love to see some of them slapped, I may have to tie her to her throne."

Leliana looked at him sidelong; mouth curved in an evil little smile, "Fun and games indeed then," and broke into peals of laughter as he blushed to the eyeballs.

_-oOo-_


	8. Chapter 8

_-oOo-_

The following morning found Alistair and Madeleina in the Empress' personal wing of the palace, receiving the congratulations of Empress Celene I on their engagement.

Alistair considered it strange that these two women were sisters; they could not be more unlike in looks or temperament, and there appeared to be no emotional connection between them at all - the Empress treated Madeleina with exactly the same reserve she offered to Alistair.

"My Chancellor informs me that the betrothal contracts are agreed and have been drawn up. I trust that you are satisfied with them, King Alistair?"

"Yes thank you." In actual fact they were massively complex, and he had only grasped the rudiments, but Eamon seemed happy enough. They contained agreements to improve trade relations, to provide each other with military support in the event of an external threat, and some complicated limitations on the inheritance of property in each country by their descendants. This was to prevent Madeleina's Orlesian property from becoming a Ferelden holding and to prevent any Orlesian relative from attempting to take the Ferelden throne if the marriage produced no heir. To compensate for the loss of the main part of the bride's inheritance, a very substantial dowry was being paid. All this was to come into force on the day they wed.

"Excellent. Arrangements have been made for you to take your betrothal Oaths and sign the contracts at the Chantry this afternoon. In honour of such a historic alliance, your Oaths will be received by the Divine herself."

The Empress smiled with the first warmth she had expressed. It still looked quite chilly to Alistair's eyes, but he supposed maybe that was just because he didn't know her. "Let me offer the two of you my sincere congratulations on your engagement. As is traditional, I would like to offer you a personal gift. Is there anything in particular you would ask of me?"

Maddy looked at Alistair meaningfully. They and Leliana had discussed this likelihood late last night, and they had a Plan.

_Eamon won't be pleased at me interfering like this_, thought Alistair, _but we won't rest easy unless we try._

He coughed embarrassed, "There is one thing Empress Celene; a somewhat delicate matter that we would appreciate your support on."

The Empress frowned, "Oh? You understand that this offer is of a personal gift, not a gift to the kingdom of Ferelden?"

"Yes, we understand that, this is a personal gift we wish to give to someone else, that we need your assistance with. It's in the nature of being a family matter…"

_-oOo-_

The time of the betrothal ceremony had been set for immediately prior to the Rite of Spring. This was a major ceremony in the Andrastian calendar, when the Divine gave thanks to Andraste for seeing Thedas through another winter, and the faithful brought offerings to entreat her for a fruitful summer.

Usually a betrothal ceremony would be attended only by the immediate families of the affianced couple. In this instance, due to the slightly suspect timing, most of the nobility of Orlais were present and a sizable chunk of the merchants and commoners of Val Royeaux also. Alistair had no doubt that Celene had planned it this way in order to advertise the historic alliance she had engineered.

The Grand Cathedral was a marvel known throughout Thedas, a glittering architectural wonder, a tribute to the glory of the Maker, or to the power of the Chantry depending upon your viewpoint. A vast and beautiful statue of Andraste dominated the Cathedral, glowing brightly from the sun shining through the myriad of expensive glass windows surrounding it. It could hardly fail to glow brightly; it was made of solid gold. Around the walls the Chant of Light was written in gold leaf and illuminated with graceful paintings and patterned bands. Sweet voices of the Sisters soared to the vaulted arches, singing praises to the Maker and exhortations for Andraste's grace and mercy.

In this splendid setting stood the handsome, imposing King of Ferelden and pretty, petite Imperial Princesse, dressed in a ton of sumptuous finery and wishing they were elsewhere.

The terms of the betrothal were solemnly read out. It took a while. The Divine, a stiff-necked old woman who never seemed to smile, then called on each of them to give their Oath.

"In the sight of Holy Andraste, I, Madeleina de Ghislain, swear that I will give myself to you, so that you become my husband and I your wife." Maddy's voice was soft, and only Alistair was close enough to see the flash of fear in her eyes.

"In the sight of Holy Andraste, I, Alistair Theirin, swear that I will receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband." Although Alistair's voice shook slightly, it was clear enough to carry all the way to the back.

The betrothal contracts were signed in the presence of witnesses. It was done.

_-oOo-_

In the break before the Rite of Spring began, the Divine greeted and congratulated the newly betrothed couple, and enquired after the health of the Grand Cleric in Denerim, the Head of the Chantry in Ferelden.

"For I had heard that she is very ill, which is sad news indeed, she has served long and honourably."

"I'm afraid you heard correctly Your Holiness, the healers are doing what they can, but she is no longer young."

The Divine was not sure what to make of this young King. He spoke with the deference due to the representative of the Maker, but there was something in his manner that reminded her of the young boys in the monasteries back when she had been a teaching Sister, always flouting her authority whenever they could. Of course he was also a Grey Warden, and they were known to flout Chantry law whenever it suited them, so perhaps that was it. And he was speaking again.

"Your Holiness, we had a favour we wished to ask you."

"Oh? You may ask, of course." This should be interesting.

"Madeleina has a niece who is an outstanding scholar of the Chant. She has no other wish than to devote her life to the Chantry and offer her scholarship in the service of Andraste. We would be grateful if you would accept her as a Sister here in the Cathedral, she would make an exceptional Curator."

One of the Revered Mothers arrayed in support of the Divine whispered in her ear, and she nodded in comprehension, "You refer to Mademoiselle Henriette D'Arlesans, do you not? An excellent scholar, as you say, although I was not aware that she had a pressing desire to become a Sister. Unfortunately I imagine her mama, Princesse Violetta, has other plans for her."

Were this Ferelden King and his bride-to-be _really _such political innocents as tothink she would dabble in the fates of the Imperial family to please them? Princesse Madeleina would be leaving Orlais soon, while Princesse Violetta would be remaining here, and provided a significant amount of patronage to the Chantry.

Alistair's smile was frank, open and guileless, "I suspect you are correct in that Your Holiness. A pity, as I know that Empress Celene would be pleased to see Henriette realise her dream of being a scholar. You know how committed the Empress is to scholarship and the arts."

"You know this for a fact?" the Divine's voice was sharp; one did not overlook _anything_ the Empress may support.

It was Madeleina who replied sweetly, "Oh yes Your Holiness; my sister Celene told us so only this morning. It is the Empress' desire that her niece Henriette receive this opportunity."

"In that case Your Majesty, Your Highness, I will speak with Mademoiselle after the Rites are complete. I feel sure we can come to a suitable arrangement."

_-oOo-_

When they returned from the Cathedral there was a small private celebration in the Ferelden guest quarters. A truly astonishing amount of cheese had been delivered, and the servants were sent to the kitchens for bread and fruit and wine to accompany it. They were also instructed to pack up a large selection of everything and deliver it to the barracks where the King's Own were quartered.

Old friends and new took the opportunity to relax; even Eamon and Ambassador Cameron, who had both been working so hard these last few days, were now able to sit back and have a drink secure in the knowledge that their work was finished for the moment.

Alistair was keenly aware that this was to be their last night together for several months. Now the celebrations and the betrothal were complete, the King and his entourage would be taking a ship back to Denerim. Madeleina and Philippe would return overland to Ghislain, and Leliana was going with them. Maddy needed time to pack up her life before beginning her own journey to Ferelden. Philippe had pointed out that most of her packing would be in plant pots.

The Empress was to host a musical soiree that evening, where some of the finest singers in Orlais would be performing, followed by fireworks in the garden as a finale to the spring celebrations. After an hour or two of cheese, wine and chitchat, most people began to think about getting ready for the party and started to drift back to their rooms.

Alistair and Maddy were the last, lingering on the balcony in the unusually warm spring evening.

He watched Maddy lean over the rail, observing people mill around in the courtyard below. They had both ditched the heavy finery of the betrothal ceremony at the first opportunity, and she now wore only a simple linen dress clinging to her curves, her hair already escaping from the elaborate style that the dresser had inflicted upon her. He moved up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist.

She turned in his arms and frowned up at him, "Do we _have_ to go?"

He smoothed her wayward hair back from her face and sighed regretfully, "We really ought to…"

She ran one finger down his arm, making the hairs rise under his thin shirt. "I just… I'd rather…get to know you better. There has been so little time, and when we meet again it'll be to get _married_. If we go to that party, we'll be expected to be proper. To sit and listen to people sing long dull songs. And afterwards…in Orlais it's considered terribly unfashionable to want to spend time at parties with your fiancé, or even worse your husband; your Arl Eamon will split us up again and send you off to dance with other women."

Alistair had to admit that this was true. While the courting process had been underway he had been required to pursue his acquaintance with the three young ladies. Now he was safely engaged he would be expected to circulate around the nobility just as he would at a Court party at home. The idea was not appealing.

She was right; this was their last opportunity until she came to Ferelden later in the summer. And now they were officially betrothed, they could be alone together without it raising any eyebrows. He also couldn't forget the sliver of fear in her eyes during the betrothal. He wasn't sure whether it was due to the, admittedly scary, idea of marrying someone she hardly knew, or…something else. He had no doubt about her innocence, and he remembered his own fears all too clearly. He tried to imagine how he would have felt back then, after his first couple of tentative kisses, if he had been expected to move directly to a wedding night following two or three anxious, fearful months alone. The idea made him shiver, and he pulled her into a protective hug.

"Well, alright, but if Eamon disapproves at me, I'm hiding behind you."

She joyfully hugged him back and growled mock-ferociously, "I'll pull his beard for you if he tries."

_-oOo-_

Notes were sent to Philippe and to Eamon, asking them to present their apologies for being unable to attend the soiree. They moved some of the remaining refreshments into Alistair's private suite of rooms, and he informed the servants that they did not wish to be disturbed. He shut the door and locked it, giving the two of them total privacy.

There was finality in the gesture, and even though Maddy had asked for this, she was overcome by embarrassment. She turned away from him and fiddled with a figurine on the table, face burning. He made no immediate move towards her; instead she could hear the clink of goblets and bottles, and the mundane sounds allowed her to regain some composure. When he did approach her, it was to offer her a goblet of wine. She took it, their fingers touching on the goblet, and he raised his own drink in a toast.

"To the future; may the Maker grant us a happy life together," he frowned before he drank, and she thought he was going to say something else, but then apparently changed his mind.

She raised her goblet and echoed the toast, "To the future."

After they had drunk the toast he took the goblet off her, putting both drinking vessels on the table. He took her hands, and his eyes were intent and serious, "Maddy, there are ground rules for tonight. Or rather one ground rule than defines everything else. The rule is we do _nothing_ unless you want to. Even if something as simple as kissing feels like too much, too soon, then that's fine. You only have to say. Do you promise me that you will?"

The thought that tonight was serious enough to need ground rules made butterflies jump in her stomach; she swallowed them down before agreeing, "I promise."

Alistair drew her closer, guiding her hands to rest on his back. Heat penetrated through the thin shirt and into her palms. One hand brushed her hair back, and the other slipped around her neck; he dipped his head to kiss her. Lips brushed gently against hers, from one corner to the other, and back to centre. His mouth was warm and soft, moving slowly, coaxing a response.

She relaxed into the kiss, gaining the courage to take a little initiative, flicking her tongue out as he had in the garden, encouraging him to kiss deeper. Tension flowed away, she sank against his chest. Her hands explored the long muscles of his back, probing into the dip of his spine, making his breath catch in his throat. His hand dropped from her hair to her back, mirroring the exploration, so she would know what he had felt. The warmth and sensation even through the linen made her nerves tingle; she stretched like a cat, pressing deeper into the kiss.

Eventually they broke for air, hands still roaming, bodies moving in tiny flowing sinuous patterns against each other. He dipped his lips to her throat and brushed a line of kisses up it. Now she understood why he had responded so strongly last night, as cold shivers fled down her back and she gasped, hips instinctively pushing forward, making him groan against her neck.

There was a need for his skin under her hands, she pulled the hem of his shirt from his trousers, slipped her hands inside, ran her palms up over the soft, warm skin of his back and dragged her nails gently back down, revelling in his reaction. She was learning how reaction fed reaction, when she made him groan or move it stimulated a triumphant response deep in her own body, and so she fed him in return.

_-oOo-_

Alistair was trying his best to hold back, not to press her, but she was learning so_ fast_, it was becoming more difficult to control his movements, to curb the desire building in him. He stepped away a little, slowing his breathing and led her to the sofa, pulling her down so that she curled against his side, kissing her hair, stroking her gently, trying to slow their pace.

She was adventurous though, pushing forward again; slipping her hand inside the front of his shirt, running her palm over the muscles in his stomach, up over his ribs, following the lines of old scars. She tugged his shirt up, and he gave in to her demand, releasing her long enough to get it over his head.

_Oh Maker her hands_, they ran over his chest, up to his throat and back down, over his arms, while she gazed at his body with the avid curiosity of a kitten. He was slumped in the corner of the sofa with her beside him; with every slide of her hands he lifted to meet her. He had to take control, or this evening would go disastrously wrong; he turned on his side, moving the focus to her, kissing her and guiding her down to lie on the sofa. She pulled him down to her in a deep kiss, he was braced above her… and this _damned_ sofa was not big enough for comfort.

_-oOo-_

Maddy caught at his discomposure, opening her eyes and looking to where his hand was slipping off the edge of the sofa. She giggled and pushed against his chest, wriggling out from under him.

"Bedchamber" she whispered, holding out her hand; her face flamed at her own boldness and at the way his eyes burned into hers.

He unfolded from the sofa and swept her up in his arms, his voice deep and throaty as he murmured "Your desire is my command." She made a small noise at that; the moment he put her back on her feet next to the bed she grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him in to kiss her again, loving the feel of his bare skin under her hands. His fingers moved down her back and round her hips, trailed up her ribs and stopped with his thumbs stroking slowly just below her breasts, hot through the soft linen of her dress.

She suddenly realised he was waiting for permission.

She couldn't say it but gave it tacitly, pressing forwards, rubbing against him so his breath hissed. His hands moved, first cupping her breasts and then rubbing her nipples slowly, scratching them through the linen and _Oh Maker that was… oh _the ache, the need. A whimper escaped her and her hips pressed forwards urgently, seeking pressure, seeking _anything_ to ease that _ache_.

Alistair gasped and shuddered, moved his hands to her hips to control her movements, "Maddy please…"

She was trembling, for the first time dimly understood what he was feeling, and obediently backed away a touch, watching him breath carefully. She reached behind her to unhook her dress, squirming to get to the fastenings. He turned her round and dealt with the hooks she couldn't reach, her dress slipping down from her shoulders. A wriggle and it fell away, pooling at her feet, before she could feel exposed his hands came up to cover her breasts, his mouth on her neck.

He turned her around and moved her back to the bed, supporting her as she fell backwards, and then lying beside her. His mouth was on her now, burning a trail from her throat to her breast, thumb and finger on the other nipple and that _ache_ burned hot again, forcing her hips up pleadingly.

In response he brought his other hand to her hip, once again hesitating, this time at her smallclothes. She combed her hands into his hair and whispered, "Yes." He moved her underwear off her hips, using her own needy lifting as the opportunity to remove them fully. His hand drifted over her stomach, down her hip, her leg and slowly up the inside of her thigh. She tensed slightly as his hand drifted higher, sudden apprehension gripping her.

He stopped immediately; hand on her inner thigh, sensitive to her reaction. His mouth moved to hers and a soft kiss eased her fears. She melted against him, hands roaming his back; the heat and ache rose again so that she nudged at that tentative hand. He responded to the invitation, brushing his fingers over her, soft and teasing, while his mouth moved to her nipple again and his tongue flickered over it, so that her hips again pushed against his hand.

The ache burned deeper within her all the time, driving her responses, taking control. His fingers found the spot where the need centred and every tiny subtle movement there made her whimper. He kissed her again long and lingeringly, one hand thumbing a nipple, the other doing _unbelievable_ things to her. She broke away to bury her face in his throat, fingers digging into his broad shoulders, hearing him groan in response.

Where his fingers touched was getting so sensitive she couldn't bear it and then, _oh, sweet andraste, don't move, _she jammed his hand between them, forcing him to be still. She was sure that if he twitched so much as a finger she'd scream, as heat rippled through her, shudders ran down her back. She clung to him as her only support, a column of strength in the centre of the maelstrom.

_-oOo-_

Alistair held her gently, stroking her hair as she returned to him. Seeing her react like that was so intense, his own need burned hot, but he had it under control. Her eyes opened and she looked at him in wonder. It was so precious, to bring her to this; he remembered his own unfolding, the uniqueness of that first sharing. Her fingers had been dug hard into his shoulders, but now were relaxed, softly moving over his neck and back.

He saw her eyes flick down, sensed her awareness of his desire and murmured quietly, "Remember the rule, only what you want to."

The soft trust in her green eyes as they returned to his face made her pointed little face beautiful, "I do… I want to touch you, but…" there it was - the flicker of fear. He understood. But what if it's scary, icky, what if I _hurt you_.

He eased his trousers down over his hips, lifting them over the obstruction and flinging them away, leaving his smallclothes on. At each stage she could decide whether to proceed, he wasn't an eager boy but a grown man, and he would live with whatever occurred or didn't.

He held out his hand for hers, not taking it but waiting for her to slip it into his. Once she did so he slowly drew it towards him, watching her eyes as her fingers made contact with the linen straining over him. Once that hurdle was surmounted he removed his hand, leaving her to explore or withdraw as she wished.

_I should have known_, he thought; questing fingers were immediately seeking to discover him, following his shape through the linen, finding lines and edges and the curve at the head, s_he's always brave. _He caught his lip between his teeth, fighting the fire in his groin as the investigation became a stroke and then a rub; she was watching his face, feeding off his reactions.

An exploratory finger sidled under the linen, touched him and jerked back, "Oh." The finger returned, touched again, "it feels…odd." She giggled, tried again while he watched her, amused and resigned to being her exhibit. The whole hand slid inside and ran over him, causing him to catch his breath sharply and jerk forward.

"It's so silky," she murmured, making him groan as she stroked her palm over him again. The hand withdrew and she tugged at his smallclothes until he slipped them off. She knelt beside him, inspecting him in the soft lamplight and he examined her in turn. Although she was petite, she was not boyish; a small waist flared out to womanly hips and although her breasts were not large they were full. He found her beautiful, and watched as she ran her fingers up over his chest, down his legs and then back to that source of curiosity.

She looked up, a little shy and vulnerable, but with that sense of adventure he was learning to love, "Can you show me what to do?"

_Maker's Breath, she's special. How many women are bold enough to ask_? He took her hand, kissed her palm softly and brought it down with his hand clasped over hers. Fingertips _there_, so she could feel the surge of blood that stiffened him; thumb _like so_, to rub on the ridge; he tightened his hand over hers and showed her how to move. Thought dissolved under her touch…

_-oOo-_

She had him now, felt the responses as increased stiffness and surges under the skin, which told her where to press and how to move. She used the other hand to explore the rest of him, smooth palm and sharp nails following the lines of his squirming, writhing body.

She gloried in his reactions, her own body moving in sympathy, her breath coming short to match his as she urged him on, her power versus his control. He was so _beautiful_ lying there helpless in her grasp; golden skin, jumping muscles, flushed face, soft vulnerable mouth.

She felt the change, the point of no return, he swelled, shuddered, and still fighting it he gasped, "I…I can't…" and she thought exultantly_, yes, you're mine_. The cry that broke from him was wild and free; she was a goddess presiding over the fall of man as he succumbed.

And then there was mess, and _ew_, and giggles, and a pronouncement from the goddess that in future Cloths Shall be Nearer than the Washstand on the Other Side of the Room.

_-oOo-_

They scampered to get cheese, wine and other refreshments from the sitting room, and proceeded to get crumbs all over the bed, laughing like naughty children at a midnight feast.

Alistair couldn't think of any praise high enough to offer to the Maker for this woman. When he compared her to the haughty creature he'd imagined he would have to marry… some younger version of Violetta in fact, and wasn't _that_ a horrible thought…well; _I'm a lucky man_.

He vowed to himself that he would take good care of her; this impulsive, compassionate girl who was leaving everything she knew to come and be his Queen. He would ensure that nothing _ever _threatened her, and do his very best to make her happy.

_-oOo-_

When the Ferelden ship left the harbour, Madeleina watched it for a while and then turned to leave. Leliana and Henriette on either side of her, their arms twined around her waist, the four men of the King's Own that Alistair had assigned to stay and guard her falling in behind them.

Henriette now wore the robes of a Chantry lay sister; her initiation lay ahead of her. Her mother had been furious, but acquiescent; she dared not gainsay the Empress, even though she was sure Celene had only allowed this as part of the ongoing grudge match they had been locked into since childhood. It was a competition that Violetta had lost any chance of winning when her sister ascended to the Imperial throne, and all her subsequent efforts to ingratiate herself with Celene appeared to have been in vain.

Maddy and Alistair had been hugely embarrassed, but also tickled pink, by Henriette's effusive gratitude over their intervention on her behalf. They had privately agreed that bringing someone such happiness was the most auspicious omen for their betrothal they could possibly have, her joy was a gift beyond price.

Leliana tightened her arm around Maddy and kissed her cheek, "The time will pass quickly, you will see. We must shop for your trousseau before we leave Val Royeaux, the very best dressmakers are here and they must have your measurements before we depart. Then, when we return, the final fittings and alterations can be done before we take ship to Ferelden." The bard smiled mistily at her friend, "You will be the most stunning bride and Queen that Ferelden ever saw, and Alistair will fall at your feet and adore you."

Maddy snorted and poked her in the ribs, "If you are going to talk nonsense for the next few months, I'll leave you here in Val Royeaux. I'm well aware that I'm too short and too brown to ever be a beauty. And as for my hair," she sighed, pushing back the unruly curls escaping from her _chignon_, "it will make a bid for freedom _whatever_ they do to it."

"Oh, but you have beautiful hair. I will style it for you when we get to Ghislain and you will see how lovely you look; but first - shopping!" Leliana ushered her reluctant charge in the direction of the nobles' quarter, eyes bright at the prospect of some quality shopping time.

_-oOo-_


	9. Chapter 9

_-oOo-_

Alistair sat in pride of place, up in the nobles' gallery of the Denerim chantry, drowning in memories provoked by the service. The last time a new Grand Cleric had been invested in Denerim he had been fifteen, and a Templar initiate. He clearly remembered standing in ranks, just as the initiates were now. Attempting to remain motionless, struggling with the weight of the unfamiliar armour, shoulders and neck burning like fire, while the endless service ground on, and on, and on.

When his ship from Orlais reached Denerim, the news had been waiting for him. The Grand Cleric, head of the Chantry in Ferelden, had died peacefully in her sleep after a long illness. Her successor was to be Leanna, previously Revered Mother of the Amaranthine chantry. Alistair had suppressed a wince when he heard that; she was known to be a hard, unbending woman, short on compassion and filled with righteous belief in the supremacy of the Chant over all other law. Although it had been denied at the time, he privately believed that it was she who had sent the fanatical Templars to kill the Grey Warden mage some months previously; she had a deep-seated hatred of apostasy that went beyond reason.

As he watched the service, Alistair spared a few hard thoughts for the Divine for inflicting this woman on him. It was certainly not going to make the relationship between the Chantry and the Crown any easier, and he had to wonder if that was why the Divine had chosen her. When meeting the Divine at his betrothal ceremony she had not impressed him in any way. She had appeared cold, puffed up in her own conceit, and at the same time far too eager to please her secular ruler. Grand Cleric Leanna managed two out of three of those effortlessly, the last seemed unlikely. A strong relationship between Chantry and Crown in Orlais, coupled with a weak one in Ferelden, would put him at a disadvantage, and he would not put it past the Empress to have engineered this.

He glanced along the line of nobles seated beside him in the gallery. Warden Commander Leonie, Arlessa of Amaranthine, sat several places to his left, wearing full armour despite the ceremonial nature of the occasion. She was a stiff-necked, middle-aged woman who must be close to her Calling; wiry grey hair pulled back in a short tail, black eyes unemotional as stone. She hadn't brought any of her Wardens along to support her through this occasion and, thinking about it, he was hardly surprised. After all, who was she going to bring; an apostate mage, a Howe to enrage the nobles, a drunken dwarf, or a dead man?Alistair's mouth twisted ruefully; the Wardens had certainly changed since his Joining. Still, he wondered what she thought of this investiture, considering her run-in with the Templars a few months ago.

The darkspawn problems in Amarathine were now solved, but at a high cost. Amaranthine City had been largely destroyed, and the nobility were not very happy about that at all. He was now also short of a Bann for Amaranthine City, or what was left of it; Esmerelle had openly attacked the Arlessa and died at her hands. Come to think of it, he needed to grant quite a few titles and lands that had been administered by the Crown for this last year. These should be bestowed as gifts to celebrate his wedding; he needed to discuss the recipients with Eamon as soon as possible.

The announcement of his engagement had not caused universal joy among the nobles. Those of the Bannorn with daughters to settle had aspired to see them as his bride. Some of the older nobles, who had lived through the Occupation, were not happy about the idea of an Orlesian Queen. This was all the more reason to gift his supporters with rank and title, and to promote those nobles who had openly championed him for the throne. With the gaps in their ranks, the existing Landsmeet could too easily fracture against him on matters of importance.

The closure of the ceremony interrupted his train of thought, drawing sighs of relief from several of the nobles in his vicinity. Alistair saved his pity for the poor slobs down there in full armour who had been standing motionless for the last three hours._ There, but for the grace of the Maker, go I_, he thought, and stood to leave while the highborn waited for him to precede them.

_-oOo-_

"My darling, I think I just saw the Head Gardener throw himself in the lake with a stone tied around his neck. Are you intending to leave _any_ of the gardens here in Ghislain, or shall we just roll the entire thing up like a carpet so you can take it with you?"

Maddy looked up from the variegated hostas she was busy dividing, and regarded her brother a little crossly, out of sorts because of the heat. "If you've really seen the gardener, you should have sent him to me. He's been sulking for days and I need his help. Anyway, what do you care, you only ever come out here to pinch at me."

Philippe gave her a look of fond amusement. "You may take it all, if you wish, my dear, but perhaps _not_ on the trip with you? There is a limit to how much you can comfortably transport to Val Royeaux and onto the ship, you know. I hate to see you sweating away so unnecessarily. Make a list of what you want; I'll have the gardeners sort it all out and send it on. Then you can go and join Leliana, who is industriously reclining in a hammock with a cool drink. A woman of sense, I feel."

She sighed and rubbed her hand across her forehead, leaving a smear of dirt there. "You're right, half the plants I want cuttings from shouldn't be pruned at this time of year anyway. I'll make a list, but you must make sure they send everything I want."

He solemnly put his hand over his heart. "I promise, just as soon as I return here after the wedding."

_-oOo-_

"You sent for me, Alistair?"

The king turned from the window and smiled warmly at his Chancellor. "Yes I did, come and have a seat." Eamon sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and waited to hear what was on the mind of his former ward.

Alistair settled himself in the other one before enlightening him. "During that interminable ceremony, it occurred to me that the Crown has one spare teyrnir, one arling and one city that I should hand out, so they can be properly administered. I was thinking that I could grant them as part of the wedding celebrations, and I wondered if you had any thoughts on suitable candidates."

Having delivered this speech, he wriggled down in his chair, and prepared to be entertained, while his Chancellor frowned considering it. Eamon, himself, was the obvious choice for Teyrn of Gwaren. Alistair had been wondering all day if he would ask for it, or even if he wanted it, as it was so far from the hub. Choice entertainment indeed; he intended to enjoy it to the utmost.

Eamon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I agree that it's an excellent idea, which should win you some further support in the Landsmeet. Let's start at the bottom, shall we? Amaranthine City has always been a very prestigious and profitable location, but in its current state it is less of a plum than usual. Did you have someone in mind, Alistair?"

Alistair smothered a grin; so this was his initial approach, was it? "As you say, it's in a bit of a mess right now, and I don't think any of the existing Banns would thank us for gifting it to them. What about Lord Eddelbrek? He provided unwavering support to the Arlessa through the darkspawn problems they had, and Bann is a step up for him. He has sons he can pass the farmlands to, and his investment in the area will ensure that he puts the work into rebuilding the city. Considering the circumstances under which it was destroyed, I also think it would be reasonable to offer some Crown monies to assist him with that project. I would want to consult with the Warden Commander before I went ahead. It's putting an awful lot of Amaranthine in the hands of one family."

"True enough. They may be staunch supporters now, but it could cause problems for the Arl in future generations. The Warden Commander is remaining in Denerim for a while, looking for recruits. I'll send a message down to the Warden compound asking her to come see me. I'll let you know if she is unhappy with the appointment."

"Good," Alistair pre-empted his Chancellor's inevitable next request with one of his own, "Who would you suggest for Denerim and Gwaren?"

"Well, you have several strong supporters among the Banns. There is Sighard of Dragon's Peak, Alfstanna of Waking Sea and…although I hesitate to mention it… my brother Teagan. In the Arlings there is Bryland of South Reach, Leonie of Amaranthine and…myself."

_Nice list_ thought Alistair, amused, _but you still haven't actually made any suggestions, you sneaky old fox. Chuck him a line and see if he bites. _"Let me make it a bit easier for you. I definitely can't hand out land and titles to both you and Teagan, it would smack of the most dreadful favouritism to the Guerrins."

"Of course not; I completely agree."

_Oh thanks, that's really helpful. I'm glad you are usually on __**my **__side in negotiations._

"Have you considered, Alistair, that making a gift to one of the Banns who does _not_ support you may sway them, thus gaining you more support?"

The king frowned, thinking it over. "I did think about that yes, but I can't be sure I'm not just handing out a more influential Landsmeet vote to someone who will continue to oppose my proposals. It seemed safer to just increase the influence of those I already hold. Also, I would actually prefer to reward loyalty, rather than bribe those who stood against me or sat on the fence."

"It's the more cautious approach, but it does make sense certainly." Eamon stirred in his seat before speaking again. "If you are looking at rewards, specifically, then it's worth bearing in mind that only three of your supporters stood against Loghain from the start: Bryland, Teagan and me. All the others threw in their lot with you for various reasons, and have stood by you in a number of debates, but we are your staunchest supporters."

"What are you suggesting Eamon?" Alistair could definitely see the winning post now.

"I would suggest that you give Gwaren to Bryland; he has a son who can inherit the South Reach arling and they will both be loyal. If you are willing, I would be pleased to have Denerim. That would mean I can have my wife at my side, administer the arling, and still serve you. Teagan is my heir for Redcliffe and will inherit that from me. As Teagan has no heir, you can bestow Rainesfere on a loyal knight or commoner, bringing them into the nobility. Would that suit?"

He had to admire Eamon's subtlety and acumen. His suggestion managed to get two arlings into Guerrin hands including the lucrative capital city (whilst at the same time avoiding appearing greedy by bypassing the teyrnir) _and _it significantlyincreased the Crown's support in the Landsmeet. It meant Isolde would be here in the capital, but he couldn't have everything.

Now to raise the stakes a smidgeon, and gain a little something extra for the Crown - something that he'd wanted for a while. "It would suit reasonably well, on one condition. The alienage comes under the jurisdiction of the Denerim arling. I want to see some significant improvements in the living conditions there, and I expect you to slam down on any abusers like that animal Vaughan Kendall,_ whatever_ their rank. I saw what it was like when we went in to clear out those slavers, and I'm not about to forget it in a hurry."

The Arl looked slightly uncomfortable. "Vaughan Kendall was found in Howe's dungeon with his throat cut. This is why the arling stands vacant."

"Yes, I know." Alistair tried to keep his face bland; there had never been a need for Eamon to know that Zev had cheerfully cut Kendall's throat on Melissa's order. It was one of the few occasions when the murder of an unarmed man had not caused the slightest twinge of his chantry-bred conscience. The world thought Howe had eradicated the Kendall line to secure the Denerim arling, and Alistair was happy enough to let that belief stand. "There will always be other rapists and bullies to threaten our poorer subjects, and I want the Denerim alienage to stand as an example to the rest of the nation."

"I will try, but the Landsmeet will not be happy if we call for changes to the living conditions of the elves."

_No they won't, which is why I need you in my corner to accomplish it, so stop wriggling you old slyboots_. The thought made him smile with genuine affection at the man opposite. "I have every faith in your persuasive powers. Give me your word that you will do your utmost to achieve what I've asked, and the arling is yours."

Despite having been manoeuvred into a corner, or possibly because of it, the King's Chancellor seemed both pleased and proud, and he responded with unusual formality. "You have my word Your Majesty."

"Excellent. Draw up the papers for all three appointments and consider it settled."

_-oOo-_

Her rooms were a flurry of tissue paper, and filled with girlish chatter, as the maids packed the contents of her wardrobe into trunks. The gardens didn't feel like hers any longer; several times she had caught herself planning next season's planting and then remembered she would not be here to implement any of it. So she had climbed her favourite tree and hid up among the cool green leaves. Trees didn't change just because you were leaving. It would be here as long as she lived.

A lilting voice sounded from below, "Maddy my darling, may I come up?"

She scowled and peered down at her friend. "Provided you don't talk about clothes or packing or anything like that, I suppose so." She knew she was being ungracious, and that Leliana didn't deserve it, but she felt so… displaced; as though nowhere and nothing belonged to her.

The lithe bard made short work of the climb and settled herself in a crook of the branches nearby. "It is nice and shady up here, isn't it? I can see why you like it so much."

"Was there something you wanted?" Maddy regretted the sharp tone as soon as she spoke. "I'm sorry; it's just… all this."

Leliana reached across the branch and took her hand sympathetically. "I understand; moving to a strange country is hard. When I left Orlais, I thought I would never be happy again, but I became contented after a while." She shook back her hair where it was tangling in some leaves, and regarded the younger woman intently. "I am glad to have found you somewhere so private; there is something important I need to discuss with you."

That shook Maddy out of her doldrums; Leliana was rarely this serious. "Oh, what's wrong?"

"I will understand if you don't want to discuss it, but I do have good reason to ask. Before we left Val Royeaux, were you and Alistair intimate together?"

Maddy's face flamed and she stared at her friend in astonishment. "What? Why do you want to know?"

Leliana's voice was soothing. "I'm not trying to pry, I promise. Soon, you will be getting married and a woman's first night can be unpleasant if she is not prepared. If the two of you have already had sex, then all is well. If not, then perhaps I can advise you on a way to ensure that you do not suffer any pain on your wedding night.

"Pain?" Maddy couldn't remember feeling any pain when they had… been together.

Leliana smiled at her reassuringly. "I bought a book in Val Royeaux that has pictures you might find interesting. And something else you may need. Come to my room and I will show you."

_-oOo-_

Maddy took the…thing…between a dubious finger and thumb, "So you want me to… do that… with this?" It was made of silky, highly polished, unvarnished wood. It had bumpy bits. The illustrations in the book had been enlightening about what she may expect on her wedding night, and it was not difficult to extrapolate from there to the usage of such a device.

Leliana nodded, watching her friend with a strange mixture of anxiety and amusement. "When you are relaxed and also completely sure you will not be disturbed, yes. I cannot deny that it may hurt, and you may bleed a little. Better now than when you are with Alistair, don't you agree?"

Well, that at least was true enough. "And if I do this, then it definitely _won't_ hurt… later?"

"It shouldn't, and it should also make the whole experience much easier and more enjoyable for both of you. I would recommend using it while you are still here in Ghislain, though. A ship is no place for privacy, and you shouldn't wait until just before the wedding, in case it makes you sore."

So, in addition to feeling like a stranger in her own home and garden, she now had to hurt herself. Life just got better and better.

_-oOo-_

Bertram, the King's Chamberlain, had nearly bitten his tongue when he was told he only had three months in total to arrange a Royal Wedding, but His Majesty had been adamant. Anything that couldn't be achieved in that time should be cut from the celebrations.

This was a terrible shame, as it meant the celebrations would be shabby, but the real fly in his ointment was the guest list. He'd been wrestling with it for hours, and still had no idea how to seat these people correctly for the Wedding Feast. The nobility were no problem at all, and it was perfectly proper to have invited representatives from Chantry and Circle, but some of the others…

Where should one seat Keeper Lanaya and her party? Dailish elves for the Maker's sake, how was he to know where they ranked? There were also dwarves from Orzammar, some really _weird_ Grey Wardens, and an elf from the Alienage of all things. Usually he would stick that one right at the bottom of the lowest table below the commoners, _or better yet not invite him at all if I had my way_, but the King obviously thought highly of him.

He clutched his remaining hair and groaned. If he put any of these people above the nobles, then there would be offence taken, but if he put them all below the salt… well… then the King would give him_ that _look, the one that said he was very disappointed, and… no. Not going to happen. He picked up his quill and began determinedly scratching names onto the seating plan. He didn't have to live in the same building as the nobles and see them every day. King Alistair was far too good at guilt. The highborn would just have to stick it.

_-oOo-_

Leliana carefully teased a comb through the mass of soft brown curls. Several days at sea had played havoc with Maddy's hair, and she was determined that Alistair's lady was _not_ going to appear in Ferelden for the first time looking like a haystack. There was a pretty dress of autumn gold hung up in the cabin, so the creases could drop out - one of the many dresses that formed the bride's trousseau. A timid maid was busy packing up the rest of the Princesse's belongings, ready to disembark later that day.

"You see? It is not so difficult to untangle, it just takes a little patience. You will look lovely, don't worry," Leliana stopped combing long enough to rescue an impeccable manicure from being chewed. "Maddy, you must keep your nails nice; there will not be enough time for them to grow back before the wedding."

It was a much stressed young lady who scowled at the offending digits, "They are too long; I'm in constant danger of lacerating my own face, and whatever you do to my hair the wind will make a mess again the instant I go outside. Maker's Blood Leliana, what am I doing? I can't be a Queen; I've spent most of my life hiding from being a Princesse. They'll think I'm an imposter, they will be looking behind me for the _real_ Queen." Her hand strayed back towards her mouth and Leliana patiently removed it again.

"You are an Imperial Princesse and, although I know your manners are considered a little rough by Orlesian standards, you have more polish than you realise." Leliana put her hands on her friend's shoulders, smiling affectionately at her through the small mirror they were using in the cramped cabin. "They will love you, just as I do. Alistair was just as worried about being King; more so, in fact, because he had never lived as a Prince at all and had to learn everything from the beginning. He did fine, and so will you."

There was silence for a while as Leliana began to carefully wind up strands of hair and pin them into place. Then a very small voice emerged from under the abundant hair. "Leliana?"

"Hmm?" she replied through a mouthful of hairpins.

"Do you think Alistair is still in love with Melissa?"

Leliana nearly spat the pins out in surprise. Maker's breath; where had _that_ come from? And why hadn't she foreseen it? She removed the pins and carefully put them on the table, giving herself time to think of the best answer.

Maddy turned in the chair to face her, looking troubled. "You know him better than most, and you saw them together."

"Yes, I did." Leliana took a deep breath and knelt on the floor in front of the chair, so she could look up at Maddy's face, "You have to understand that, when we all travelled together during the Blight, Alistair was such an innocent boy. He'd gone straight from the Chantry to the Wardens, had hardly ever met any women at all apart from Sisters. And then he spent over a year fighting side by side with another warrior, a woman strong enough to hold us all together and get things done. And he had so little faith in himself, so little self-belief, that he never realised he was her equal in strength and purpose, and certainly her superior in morality."

Leliana's brow puckered as she thought back to that time. She certainly couldn't tell Maddy the whole truth, which was that although Alistair had adored her, Melissa had almost certainly not returned his regard to the same degree. After the Landsmeet, when he had said they couldn't marry, Melissa had looked quite relieved. Leliana also remembered Zev's face at the funeral, after which he abruptly left for Antiva; she had her suspicions that Mel had not been entirely faithful to Alistair.

She pushed that aside, none of it could be recounted. His wife may not be able to resist passing it along, and she would not risk Alistair's memories being tarnished. "He loved her with a boy's adoration, and, like all of us with our first love, she will no doubt have a place in his heart forever." Leliana took the hands of the forlorn girl in front of her and squeezed them gently. "But I really don't believe she was his one true love, and I don't think he is still in love with her. Treat her memory gently and it'll work out fine. I promise."

Maddy nodded, head down, and turned back to the mirror so that her hair could be finished. Leliana picked the pins back up, earnestly hoping she had convinced her friend.

_-oOo-_


	10. Chapter 10

_-oOo-_

Pennants snapped in the wind off the harbour, sunlight gleamed on the pristine armour of the King's Own guards. The crowd were in holiday spirits; drinking ale and eating food bought from enterprising merchants, and waiting for their soon-to-be Queen to emerge from the ship. The common folk were held back on either side by rows of militiamen, leaving room in the centre for the King and his entourage to greet his bride-to-be.

Alistair fidgeted; picking at the buttons of his sleeveless green doublet, fiddling with the lace at the cuffs of his shirt.

Although she must have spent_ very_ little time in Ghislain in order to be here for midsummer, it still felt forever since he had seen his fiancée, and he couldn't help but wonder how she would react to him. They had spent three days together followed by just over three months apart. She hardly knew him. Maker's Breath, what if she wished she'd refused him, what if she thought this was a mistake? She had left everything to come here; maybe she hated him for it. He tried to fix his memory on her face when she had agreed to marry him, because right then he had known that she did want to. Hadn't he? But he couldn't even remember her face properly. Too little time followed by too much time.

The sailors finished securing the gangplank and began moving luggage off the ship. Several trunks, an inordinate number of plant pots, some small trees in hessian bags of soil, and a large bag that looked like a weapons bag. But if it was a weapons bag then that thing stuck out the top was a trident. That would be silly. A gardening fork then; did she think they didn't have any in Denerim? And two large baskets with strapped down lids. The baskets were meowing.

_She has cats?_

_-oOo-_

Maddy went to wipe her sweaty hands on her dress. Leliana stopped her just in time and handed her a handkerchief. She threw the red-head an apologetic look and wiped her hands on it. Sweet Andraste, it sounded like there was a multitude out there.

"Don't worry," murmured Leliana supportively, "it'll be fine."

There was a knock at the cabin door, and Philippe breezed in looking as impeccable as ever. "Come _ma_ _chérie_, before they begin to tear up the wharf." The reassuring press of his fingers as he hooked her hand over his arm contrasted strongly with his chirpy manner. "If we wait any longer there will be a riot, and you shall see your adorable groom hoisted in the arms of the mob and thrown into the ocean. This would be amusing, I admit, but perhaps _not_ an ideal start to your new life."

Maddy lifted her chin. As intended, Philippe's nonsense had steadied her. "Come on then, let's go." They stepped out on deck, with Leliana bringing up the rear.

_-oOo-_

As soon as the Prince and Princesse stepped into view, the cheering began. It rose up on either side of Alistair like crashing waves; the heaving crowds manoeuvring for the best view, and the militia doing their best to restrain them.

The couple on the ship halted on the deck, and he really couldn't blame them. Right at this moment, he would understand entirely if they turned the ship around and ran back to Orlais. The momentary hesitation passed, and they were in motion again, heading across the deck to the gangplank, a blur of blue and gold at this distance.

Alistair stepped forward, onto the quay, away from the crowds and walked towards the gangplank. He could see her now, as she stepped off the ship and onto the long plank ahead of him. She was holding up her deep yellow gown with one hand, clasping her brother's blue silk-clad arm with the other. He'd forgotten that she was so tiny and, as she looked up from navigating onto the plank and saw him, he realised that he'd also forgotten how her smile made her pixie face beautiful.

_-oOo-_

For weeks she'd been dispossessed, lost, torn by worry and fear. She'd wondered why in all the dark corners of the Fade she was doing this; why she was leaving her home, and her beloved brother, to go to a strange country and take up a crown she didn't even _want_.

When Maddy saw the tall figure striding towards her with the wind ruffling his shirt-sleeves, blond hair glinting copper in the sun, she remembered precisely why. The storm clouds lifted from her face for the first time in days. She released Philippe, grabbed her skirt in both hands and ran down the gangplank to meet her betrothed. Behind her she heard her brother's hoot of laughter. Ahead of her, Alistair was laughing too, hands outstretched for hers.

The crowd loved it.

_-oOo- _

Maddy sat by the window in a pleasant chamber overlooking a portion of the gardens. Claudia, her little ginger tabby, lay purring in an inelegant heap between her and the chair arm, belly up and paws in the air. Her other cat, a large black and white villain by the name of Pepe, had already set off to explore the grounds, and no doubt to terrorize any other cats unlucky enough to be in residence. She hoped Alistair didn't keep any game out there; Pepe seemed quite sure she needed feeding and had a tendency to bring her some of his kills. She liked pheasant, just not when it was being spat at her feet.

Leliana was going through their itinerary for the next two days, and the upshot seemed to be that she was not going to have any time alone with Alistair.

After that initial greeting on the wharf, they had made their slow way back through the crowds to the palace. They had brought her a horse but, although she could ride, the beast was far too big for her; it seemed someone had neglected to inform the Master of the Horse that she was short. Alistair had merely laughed, ordering the groom to throw her up in front of him. She had made the final leg of her journey to her new home with her fiancé's chest against her back and his arm around her waist. In a dress, this was trickier than it might sound. She had hooked one leg around the pommel, spread her skirts over the horse's back and neck, and trusted to Alistair to keep her secure. The crowds following their slow progress, or running from their homes, and businesses to greet their new Queen, had cheered more than ever to see them so. It was yet another chocolate box moment, a grand romantic picture, and they'd lapped it up.

As soon as she arrived at the palace, she had to run the gauntlet of the senior servants, lined up to greet her, and was then ushered directly to a chamber to freshen up after her trip. This was not the Queen's Chamber adjacent to Alistair's - she and her belongings would be moved there after the wedding - but merely a comfortable guest chamber.

The Chamberlain had greeted her arrival with enormous relief. She had been expected many days ago, but they were delayed leaving Val Royeaux by unseasonable storms. All the celebrations had to be reshuffled. The formal occasions that demanded her appearance had been pushed back closer and closer to the wedding, while some of the more frivolous celebrations were brought forward to entertain the house guests as they trickled in throughout the week. Unfortunately, this meant that the time between now and the wedding would be filled with the kind of events that were likely to turn her, and her prospective groom, savage.

"So what's first, and when?" she asked.

Leliana checked the list before replying. "Formal Reception this evening, so you can be presented to everyone. The good news is that you will make your entrance last, once everyone else has arrived, so you have plenty of time to eat, bathe and change."

"So, you are telling me the _good news_ is the fact that I have to walk into a large room full to the brim with people I don't know, all of whom will turn to look at me?"

Leliana sighed with genuine affection. "Oh, you are so much like Alistair was a year ago when he took the throne. He is much, much more confident now and you will be too, trust me."

Maddy impulsively jumped up, dislodging a mildly complaining Claudia, and hugged her friend. "Have I told you how fantastic you have been these last three months? If I haven't, then I'm an ingrate of the highest order. _Thank you_ Leliana, for everything."

_-oOo-_

Bann Sighard bowed himself out of the King's presence, taking his wife and his son, Oswyn, with him. Oswyn still walked with a cane after his time in Howe's dungeon, and probably always would. This being a Formal Reception, Alistair was enthroned on the dais, greeting his guests as they arrived. Not his favourite kind of party - in fact, it was fairly high on his list of _least_ favourite kinds of parties - but it had been unavoidable. His betrothed must be received in full ceremonial style.

Virtually everyone was here now, and the room was becoming quite full. A knot of people near the door shifted slightly, and Alistair saw that the First Enchanter had just entered. He leant forward with a frown, trying to see past them, because First Enchanter Irving looked… wrong. Not in and of himself, but because of the man who stood at his side. The crowd shifted again and he realised why.

It was the wrong Templar.

Alistair was not the only person to notice, other heads were turning also. Irving and Greagoir had been turning up together to formal occasions for years, their tension as palpable as an old married couple, a strange mixture of link and repulsion. Alistair even remembered them doing so for Chantry ceremonies back when he was an initiate. This Templar, no, this Knight Commander, going by the insignia on his plate, was younger, with crinkly auburn hair and a disturbing expression in his dark eyes. _I've seen him before_, thought Alistair, _just can't immediately remember where_.

Irving was crossing the room towards him, politely acknowledging greetings, but correctly moving to greet his King first. The old mage leant heavily on his staff as he went to kneel, and Alistair hastily waved him back up; it was well known that, since Uldred's uprising, his health had not been strong.

"Well met, Your Majesty. I trust you are well?"

"Very well, thank you, First Enchanter. I hope you, too, are in good health?"

"As well as can be expected, I thank you." He indicated the man at his side. "May I present Knight Commander Cullen, Sire." The younger man offered the stiff bow of a man in unyielding armour. Senior Templars seemed to feel that kneeling was too great an acceptance of secular authority. Certainly Alistair had never seen one unbend so far.

"Maker's blessings upon you, Your Majesty." The man's voice was quite soft, and utterly at odds with his burning eyes. Those eyes were what clicked it into place. Last time he saw this man, he had been railing at Greagoir, trying to get him to send Irving and every other remaining mage to Aeonar, on the off-chance that Uldred had corrupted them.

"A pleasure to meet you, Knight Commander Cullen; may I ask why Knight Commander Greagoir is unable to attend?"

"The Commander has retired honourably, Sire. I apologise for taking his place at this celebration without informing you in advance, and also for our belated arrival. Knight Commander Greagoir's… decision to retire was quite sudden. The Grand Cleric only confirmed my appointment today, when we reached Denerim Cathedral.

'Retired honourably'; Alistair knew what _that_ euphemism meant. The lyrium had finally gotten to him, taken away his edge and, ultimately, his mind. So end all Templars; shipped to Val Royeaux, tucked away, and tenderly cared for by Chantry sisters. So the apostate-hating Grand Cleric had appointed a mage-hating Knight Commander to replace him, had she? This would not be a good time to be a mage, in or out of the Circle Tower. He'd been hearing reports this last month of some manoeuvring going on in the Chantry. There were more Templars in the field these days, rounding up apostates, while some of the more liberal and open-minded of the Templar brethren were being appointed to backwater chantries. Now that Greagoir was out of the way, there would be changes in the Circle too, no doubt.

Alistair turned first to Irving; the mage's face showed none of the concern he must be feeling, but there was a touch of comprehension there as he met the gaze of the King. "You have my sympathy, First Enchanter." He put no stress on the words but he was sure Irving understood. "I know that you and Knight Commander Greagoir have been colleagues for many years, and you must miss him." The First Enchanter bowed slightly and the King turned back to Cullen. "And my congratulations to you, Knight Commander; I hope that your tenure will be long and honourable."

"Thank you, Sire, I'll do my best." Too much of the wrong sort of fervour in that voice; Alistair recognised the tone well enough from his own time in the Chantry. It used to give him the shivers back then, too. Their audience over, the two men withdrew to circulate around the room, allowing the assorted diplomats and nobles the opportunity to accost them and glean this news for themselves.

Alistair beckoned to his Chamberlain, who moved immediately to his side. "Please inform Leliana that we are ready for them."

"Certainly, Your Majesty."

Five minutes later he saw Leliana slip in and give the herald the nod. Alistair stood to formally greet his betrothed.

_-oOo-_

The Chamberlain's voice boomed out, "Your Majesty, my Lords, Ladies and Sers. I am honoured to present Prince Philippe and Princess Madeleina of Ghislain."

Maddy had a death grip on Philippe's arm as she walked slowly forward; she was _not_ going to fall in front of all these people. Once had been funny, twice would be tragic, and anyway, she had no intention of vindicating Eamon's opinion of her. He had always been perfectly polite, but she would have to be stupid not to realise that he didn't wholly approve of Alistair's chosen wife.

_Maker, there are so many people here._ The Chamberlain's announcement had opened up a corridor down the centre of the room, and to either side people were bowing or curtseying to a variety of degrees, based on their own rank. There were only two exceptions: a party of elves fronted by an elven woman even tinier than she, all with tattooed faces and all bolt upright, and Alistair, who stood on a dais ahead of her. She faltered, and Philippe's reassuring arm pulled her on. This didn't look like her Alistair. It certainly wasn't the kindly man who had pulled her to her feet at an Imperial Ball. Or the troubled man in the gardens, whose touch had made her feel like a woman for the first time. And definitely _not_ the laughing boy, who dragged her around cheese stalls in Val Royeaux. He wasn't even the warm, welcoming presence who had taken her hands on the dock this morning. This was a King in his own Court, waiting for his betrothed to present herself and fulfil her Oath; he was even wearing his crown. She was glad she knew the other Alistairs. If she had been arriving here to marry a man she had never met she would be terrified now; he was magnificent, imposing, and regal. He may not have been brought up to this, but in that moment it was clear he was born to it.

She reached the bottom of the steps to the dais, and Philippe squeezed her arm as he released it. He then stepped to the side, leaving her marooned in the empty space before her husband-to-be. Her stomach was fluttering. _Sweet Andraste, don't let me mess this up_. In full ceremonial style she swept out the full skirts of her fashionable Orlesian gown (she could hear murmurs from some of the noble ladies in their slim Ferelden dresses), dropped into the deepest possible formal curtsey, and pronounced the required words. "I, Madeleina de Ghislain, offer myself to you, in fulfilment of my Betrothal Oath." The words were archaic, a remnant from the days when women were little more than chattels.

Alistair was moving down the steps towards her; he took her hands and raised her from the obeisance. "I, Alistair Theirin, receive you gladly, in fulfilment of my Betrothal Oath." Now finally he smiled at her, turning her towards the crowd and tucking her hand in his arm, as the nobility cheered and clapped.

_-oOo-_

"May I present…, may I present..., may I present…"

The names were blurring together as she smiled and accepted their hands. Alistair was taking her and Philippe on a circuit of the room, presenting people to them, making a little small talk, before moving on to the next. She quickly found that she could judge his opinion of them by his manner. The more regal he was, the less he liked them. The more _Alistair_ he was, the better she was initially inclined to think of them.

He was now introducing her to an eclectic group of Grey Wardens; a steely-eyed Commander in formal armour; a smiling man in mage's robes who looked such a lot like Alistair she could only assume they were related; a dour-looking man with the dress and bearing of a noble; and, _Maker's Breath what was that smell,_ a dwarf who looked somewhat worse for wear despite the early evening hour and appeared to have _bathed_ in ale. Strangely, the one Alistair appeared most comfortable with was the drunken dwarf, although the one he pulled aside to speak privately to was the mage.

"Have you seen the new KC?" Alistair murmured to him, once they were a little apart from the others. She remained hooked on his arm listening, while behind her Philippe was valiantly attempting to charm Commander Leonie.

"Yes, it's going to be joy, joy, joy from here on in, Your Majesty. If I start running now, do you think you could trip him up for me?" The formal address was in sharp contrast to the mage's breezy tones.

Alistair looked neither amused nor reassured. "If there is even the hint of a threat against the Wardens, you let me know immediately, is that clear Anders?"

Anders grinned broadly at him. "Clear as crystal… brother."

Oh, so they _are_ related, that explained it. "You are Alistair's brother?" Both men looked at her for a moment, bewildered, and then burst out laughing.

"I don't claim that kind of lofty distinction, Your Highness. What stands here in front of me is His Majesty my King," Anders produced an impudent little bow, "and Alistair, my brother Warden. It's not always easy to keep them separate, as you saw."

"Oh, I see." said Maddy, who didn't, really. This still gave no explanation of the resemblance. However, she liked the mage immediately; he had the same free and easy manners that had attracted her to Alistair and Leliana in Orlais. They collected Philippe and moved on, leaving the Wardens behind.

_-oOo-_

Leliana had been right; it was _much_ less formal here. Maddy tried to imagine a group of Dalish at an Imperial function and failed miserably. "May I present Keeper Lanaya, representing the Dalish tribes?" The absurdly young-looking blonde elf had a very nice smile, but took her hand as though she was not sure what to do with it.

"_Anderan ati'shan_ Princess Madeleina, it is good to meet you." Keeper Lanaya introduced the two male elves with her, both of whom looked significantly more uncomfortable in their surroundings than she did, and then turned back to the royal couple. "We have a gift for you, King Alistair, in celebration of your union. Could you tell us when it would be appropriate to bring it?"

"That's very kind of you Keeper, thank you. If you speak to my Chamberlain, Bertram, he will be happy to arrange to receive it, at your convenience, on our behalf."

A small crease appeared between the eyebrows of the young Dalish. "I'm sorry King Alistair, I'm afraid that won't be possible. If I can explain, there is a certain amount of ritual involved in the gift." She smiled and continued, "You know that those elves that live as humans have retained a tiny piece of elven culture in their planting of the _Vhenadahl_, yes?"

Alistair nodded agreement, but on seeing Maddy's bewildered expression he explained. "The _Vhenadahl_ is…," he checked with Lanaya's face to see whether he was correct, "the 'Tree of the People' - is that right?"

Lanaya smiled and nodded agreement. "We of the Dalish do not plant _Vhenadahl_ any more, as we are dispossessed and have no homeland in which to plant one. All of the _Vhen'alas_ is our home now. But there is a similar custom, remembered from our ancient culture, the planting of the _Vhen'alath_, the…," she frowned, attempting to translate, "the Tree of Family, of Love. In honour of your union, and the friendship between us, we offer you a _Vhen'alath_ for your home."

Maddy was amazed and delighted. "You're giving us a tree? That's wonderful."

Her obvious pleasure made the elf's eyes light up in response. "I am very happy that it pleases you, Princess Madeleina. But you must understand that there is a ceremony for the planting of the _Vhen'alath, _to ensure its growth and health, and to bind its growth to yours - to bring fertility to your line. When may we come and perform the ceremony with you?"

Maddy's eyes pleaded with Alistair; despite their tight schedule he submitted to her appeal and beckoned over the Chamberlain. "Bertram, Keeper Lanaya and her entourage will be returning tomorrow morning to bring a gift, and to perform a ceremony with us. Discuss with her how long is required, and create time in our schedule, please."

The Chamberlain bowed, only the slightest twitch of an eyebrow demonstrating his agony at this disruption. "Yes, Your Majesty."

With some difficulty Maddy refrained from kissing Alistair right there and then, settling instead for pressing his arm gratefully. "We will see you tomorrow then, Keeper."

_-oOo-_

"Maker's blessings on you, Your Highness."

Knight Commander Cullen bowed over the hand of the future Queen and flinched slightly. He breathed in sharply, trying to follow the sensation he had just felt. _Magic_; he could taste it, faint and strange, not like tower magic at all. All magic was dangerous, always teetering on the brink of destruction, of madness, but hedge magic was the worst, wild, uncontrolled, unwatched, always mere seconds from ripping the Fade. The panic welled up and he fought it down, he could stop it now, he could stop it all, so that no-one was at risk. But where was this magic he could sense, what was the source? He looked past the King, to where they had just come from, and his face tightened. Of course, the Dalish Keeper; the Queen must still be carrying that scent from her touch. _Dalish_. Apostates running each tribe, apostates in charge_; never to rule, never to rule, never to rule over him._

_-oOo-_

After they had walked away, Maddy pulled on Alistair's sleeve. When he bent his head she murmured, "Did you see how that man looked at me?"

Alistair looked back at Irving and Cullen and frowned. "No, I didn't notice anything. Which one do you mean?"

"The younger one, the Templar; he…" It was difficult to describe, his stare had made her uncomfortable, but it wasn't that… it was almost like he was sniffing the air around her. But that didn't make any sense; maybe she'd imagined it. "I'm sure it's nothing, don't worry."

He smiled and whispered in her ear, "It's alright; I think he's creepy too," and his breath on her drove pretty much everything else out of her head.

_-oOo-_

He really should go to bed; it was another long day tomorrow. And then the next day was to be his wedding. Instead he had opened the long window in his bedchamber and wandered out onto the balcony. The summer night was warm and still. The air cleared his head after hours of carefully controlled chitchat; of ensuring that Maddy had not been left open to the hostility of the older Orlesian-hating nobles, of trying to give her every opportunity to make a connection with anyone else. He remembered how hard he had found it at first. He had the advantage of at least vaguely knowing a lot of these people.

As soon as she walked in the door of the Reception Hall, Alistair had determined right there and then to make things as easy for her as possible. She had looked every inch an Orlesian Princesse, from her elaborate hairstyle to her full-skirted gown. But he had seen how tightly she held to Philippe's arm, and had felt for her. He had done a lot of whining and complaining when he first took the throne, despite having done so voluntarily. He didn't even want to think what it would be like to go to another country, and take the throne there. It took a lot of courage, more than he believed he had.

He really wanted to go to her tonight, really wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and remind both of them that there was something more on offer than just a spiky metal hat, and a big chair. It was too soon to say how much, but definitely more. But going to her room involved hideous complications; corridors and guards and the possibility of giggling maids. Or she might already be in bed. He lingered on that thought a moment; it was very appealing, but he didn't wish to put pressure on her. Turning up in her room unannounced would be unfair.

_Two more days…_

_-oOo-_


	11. Chapter 11

_-oOo-_

"Your Highness," the maid said, as she put the breakfast tray on the table and bobbed a curtsy, "The King has asked if you would join him downstairs after breakfast."

"What? Oh, yes, of course." Maddy's low spirits following last night's party took a sudden upturn at the prospect of seeing Alistair without a massive audience, "Come back in twenty minutes or so to help me dress, please."

"Yes, Your Highness."

As soon as the maid left, she dived out of bed, threw a robe on, and made for the breakfast tray, intent on eating as quickly as possible so she could dress. The contents appeared somewhat strange to her eyes; there were none of the patisserie breads and preserves that she was accustomed to. Instead there was bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and _Maker's Breath, what's that? _She prodded with a tentative fork at the black disc, and shuddered. This was food?

_-oOo-_

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she found Alistair waiting for her in the hall; gorgeous in white shirt and soft green jerkin, brown eyes warm and smiling. He came to meet her and took her hand. "Did you sleep well, Maddy?"

She hadn't; in actual fact she had struggled to sleep in a bed that wasn't moving with the swell of the waves. Instead, she had spent half the night plotting whether she could get from her room to his, without causing an incident. She settled for a demure white lie. "Quite well, thank you."

"I wanted to see you before we get caught up in ceremonial nonsense again; I have a surprise for you." Nervous excitement vibrated in his voice. Still holding her hand, he led her away from the stairs, and towards one of the doors leading from the hall. "It's meant to be a wedding present, but with the Dalish coming today, I thought it would be best to let you have it now."

On these words he opened the door. Maddy walked through and stopped suddenly. "Oh…" They were in a long room with high arched windows made of many, many, small panes of glass. A fountain tinkled in the centre, surrounded by walkways. Everywhere there were luxuriant, exotic plants.

Alistair followed her in, and had his hands on her shoulders. He murmured in her ear, "I hope you like it; the Steward has been tearing his hair out these last three months, trying to ensure the craftsmen got it finished in time." She couldn't speak, her throat was full of tears, and all she could do was turn in his arms and hug him tightly, head in the crook of his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head, and gently pulled her to a door between the arched windows. "Look," he said, indicating what was beyond the door. "I've had a garden laid out for you; not planted, just landscaped. It'll be the Queen's Garden; you can have it how you want it. That's why I had to show you today, because I thought you'd want the Dalish tree here…" All this came out in a rush. and he just looked at her anxiously, obviously hoping he'd done right.

"Alistair…" She was utterly overcome, couldn't think of a single thing to say.

His hazel eyes were soft and still solemnly seeking validation. "I just thought… you've left everything, your home, your garden, your whole life. I wanted you to have something of your own." It was too much; she turned into his chest and burst into tears, months of feeling dispossessed pouring out in one torrential cleansing. He held her close, and waited it out, stroking her hair. When the storm reduced to sniffles, he said jokingly, "Seeing as you hate it so much, I'll have it all torn down, shall I?"

That was enough to make her raise her head. "Don't you dare," she declared with a mock frown, which quickly melted away as soon as she looked into his eyes. "It's perfect, this means so much…I can't even think how to thank you." She gave him a misty smile. "So I'm not going to try." Instead she took his face in her hands and kissed him, long and lingeringly, as she'd wanted to since she arrived.

They were interrupted by a soft, polite cough. "Your Majesty, Your Highness. Keeper Lanaya and her associates are here to see you, as you requested."

They ended the kiss, but made no immediate move to break apart. Alistair replied, "Thank you Bertram, we'll be there in a moment."

"Very well, sire."

_-oOo-_

The royal couple led the Dalish into a raw, new garden, and the Princess, after some deliberation, indicated the perfect spot for planting. Keeper Lanaya produced a small box that appeared to contain a single walnut seed. She carefully took it from the box, and stripped off the fleshy husk, displaying the glossy green seed beneath.

The young Queen-to-be raised her brows in surprise. "I thought you were bringing a sapling; a walnut tree grown from seed takes at least ten years just to start fruiting."

"I think you may be surprised, Princess Madeleina. This is an old and very precious ritual, one of the few we have recovered. The _Vhen'alath _will be strong." Lanaya hesitated, with the seed in the palm of her hand, looking doubtfully at the fine clothes of royalty. "I will need you both to take part in the ritual, I'm afraid you may get a little dirty." Their broad smiles, and easy laughter, reassured her.

"My valet will hurt me for this, but I'm not afraid of a little mud."

"I ruin every dress I own in the garden, sooner or later."

Lanaya smiled, it was pleasing to see that these _shemlen_ leaders were so natural. Many of the people who had attended the ceremony last night had disgusted the Dalish with their puffed-up conceit. She would have to bring different companions to each ceremony, so that they didn't run out of patience and say something impolite. Not to mention, minimising their exposure to the quickening. "Very well then, the three of us need to space ourselves around the planting spot. Once the seed is placed, please place your hands flat on the soil. Not too close," she cautioned them, "the _Vhen'alath_ will need space."

_-oOo-_

Alistair watched as the Keeper carefully placed the seed on top of the soil. As instructed, he crouched down and placed his hands flat on the ground. Maddy was looking confused, and he was pretty sure he could work out why; even he knew enough to know that you started by digging a hole, yes? Not by putting the seed on the surface.

Once all three of them had their hands positioned correctly, the Keeper began to speak in the fluid, flowing syllables of Elvish. Immediately he felt the tug on his mind – magic. Dalish magic, just like the sort he remembered Zathrian using, alien to his senses. To even a partially trained Templar it felt, _it tasted,_ quite different from Circle magic. The magic was encompassing the area, enveloping the three of them completely. For the first time, he wondered whether he had been foolish to agree to this; Eamon would have conniptions if he knew the King was exposing himself so. The seed began to sink into the ground of its own accord, and he felt a second type of magic coil through the first, a wild, free magic like the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, or the taste of wild strawberries. He'd felt it before, recently, but it slipped away as astonishment took the place of memory. A green shoot was slowly rising out of the ground.

_-oOo-_

When the first shoot appeared, Maddy was so shocked she almost took her hands away. She had been slipping into almost a dream state; lulled by the liquid sounds of the Elvish tongue, and the familiar soil beneath her hands, feeling the burgeoning of the slowly awakening seed. Once she got over the initial surprise, she found herself pulled back into the process; her consciousness of the world lessened. All her attention was on root and sap, and the diffused _awareness _that came from all vegetative life, but most strongly from trees.

She could feel the surge of growth as the shoot thickened into a sapling. Dreamily, she reached with her mind to embrace the young tree with the love and nurture she had for growing things, encouraging it to dig down deep with strong roots, to reach towards the sun. The sapling became sturdy, its bole widening. She was suddenly aware that the sun was no longer on her head, shade provided by a canopy of leaves.

_-oOo-_

When a full grown tree stood between them, Lanaya ended the ritual and gave thanks to Mythal and Andruil for their blessings. The results had been surprising, the tree was far more mature than she had been expecting. To have been assisted by a _Vhen'alas'mamae_! Of all things, this was the least likely. Among the Dalish they existed only as lore. There were none in this generation, although Zathrian had recounted meeting one during his long life. The mere idea of a human one was astounding; surely there must be _elvhen _blood somewhere in her line.

The young King was assisting his betrothed to her feet. She looked dazed; as well she might, much had been given. Lanaya wondered if the King realised what he had, and probed gently. "You are blessed King Alistair, to be receiving a _Vhen'alas'mamae _to your clan-hearth_." _

He was looking in awe at the flourishing tree. "Blessed indeed, this is amazing." She gave up, either he knew or he didn't, it was no real concern of the Dalish. Although, she couldn't help feeling it was unfair that the shemlen should be the ones to receive this blessing.

The Orlesian princess was running her hands over the bark lovingly. She turned to the Keeper and gave her a smile of heartfelt gratitude. "How do I say 'thank you' in your language Keeper?" Lanaya sounded out the words for her and immediately had her hands seized and held. "_Ma serannas_, Keeper Lanaya, to you and all your clans."

The Keeper bowed in profound respect. "_Ma serannas; _you will always have a welcome among us."

_-oOo-_

"My poor dear, you are exhausted."

Maddy was drooping in her chair, her gentle Orlesian maid brushing her hair out, while Leliana changed into a nightgown. "It's been a long day," she sighed.

It had passed in a blur, one traditional ceremony after another. The bride and groom must go to the Denerim cathedral; receive blessings, pay substantial tithes and spend time in prayer. They must hand out gifts to all the palace servants. They must receive in state any of the townspeople wishing to congratulate them; all the local merchants had turned up in force, hoping to gain the patronage of royalty.

When the sun set, a wave of women had carried Maddy away to her rooms for a private celebration, while a horde of men marched Alistair off to his, followed by stern commands from Leliana not to get him drunk. They were, by tradition, not permitted to see each other again until they were to walk down the aisle together.

Maddy had slept badly, had endured a punishing day, and wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed. This evening's 'entertainment' was a step too far for her. All she could manage was to offer sleepy smiles to the court ladies who fussed around her, refuse all drinks except tea, and hope she didn't mortally offend anyone.

Leliana played hostess for her; passing round drinks, telling stories and entertaining the ladies with her best tales. The bride's lacklustre reactions affected them all, though, and thankfully they did not linger. Now there was just her and Leliana who, as her Maid of Honour, was required by tradition to stay and ensure her virtue was not threatened.

Gowned, and with her hair braided back, Maddy staggered to the bed, and flopped into it. Leliana dismissed the maid, who curtsied, and sought her own bed in the side chamber. She then quickly finished her own preparations, and slipped in the other side. Peace descended.

_-oOo-_

The party in Alistair's sitting room had become comparatively uproarious, seeing as it contained rather a lot more people who actually knew him, and had no intention of letting him sleep. In addition to the expected smattering of nobles and court gentlemen, it contained the bride's brother, a gaggle of Wardens, and all of the King's Own, who, for this one night, had left the palace guard to do all the actual work around the place. Wine and spirits were flowing like water, and if Philippe was quietly ensuring very little of it flowed into the King's goblet, no-one seemed to notice except Alistair himself, who was grateful for it. Despite comparative sobriety, both of these young royals threw themselves into the celebrations with gusto, betting freely on their favourites for Anders' new game – picking up a piece of paper from the floor with your teeth, without anything other than your feet touching the floor.

When a brawny young fellow from the King's Own picked Oghren up by his ankles, and dangled him so he could pick the paper up easily, there were cries of 'Cheat' and roars of laughter… and then the door burst open. Leliana staggered in half-carrying Maddy, whose white nightgown was splashed with gore and who had a bloodied hand pressed to her side.

"What the…"

"The princess…"

"She's bleeding…"

"To arms!" The contingent of King's Own, plus most of the rest of the men, plunged out of the room to seek the threat.

"Maker, what happened, is she alright? Anders, here, now!" Alistair took Leliana's burden away and gently laid her on a sofa. Maddy was at best only half-conscious, crying with pain.

"I'm on it." The mage immediately moved forward, ripping open the knife cut in Maddy's nightgown to properly inspect the wound. "It's poisoned. Nathaniel, Leliana; take a shufti at this, and tell me what it is." He used a scrap of nightie to swab away a small amount of the dark gunk around the wound and passed it behind him.

"I'll take a look; I think Leliana is also hurt." The dark-haired Warden took the swab, and walked over to the nearest light source to inspect the colour. He frowned, and cautiously sniffed it. Nathaniel immediately spun round, calling urgently, "Anders, _do not_ close that wound until I return. We'll need to get an antidote into it first, or she'll die." He dashed out of the room at full speed.

"_Die?_" Alistair's voice was no more than a distraught whisper. He was knelt at Maddy's side, holding her hand.

"Don't worry Alistair, I've got her." Anders' voice was reassuring; he was casting with butterfly gentle gestures, keeping the blood staunched while he waited for Nathaniel to return. "Someone make sure Leliana isn't in any danger, I can't stop to check."

"I have done so, _mon ami_. Her wound is not so deep, and I see no poison." Philippe's eyes were anxiously fixed on his sister, but his hands were pressing together the cut on Leliana's arm.

Leliana answered faintly, "I'm alright. I'm so sorry, Alistair; I couldn't get to them both in time to stop it. They came from the maid's chamber, we were asleep. I had no weapons; I had to disarm one of them before I could do anything else."

Oghren burst back in. "One nughumper dead in the princess' chamber, and no sign of any others. And a maid in the side chamber with her throat cut."

"There were two of them Oghren, but I imagine the other is long gone." Leliana winced as Philippe washed the long cut with brandy.

"I apologise my dear, I'm afraid my abilities with wounds are a little rough and ready."

Nathaniel slipped through the door, and dropped a bottle next to Anders. "Get as much of that as possible in the wound, and then close it quickly." He moved to where Leliana sat and took her arm to check the wound. "I brought a second dose in case you were also poisoned, but this looks clean."

Anders was casting in earnest now, while Alistair carefully tilted the bottle over the gash in Maddy's side. As soon as the liquid made contact with her flesh she screamed, and he caught his lip between his teeth in a sob as he poured. The wound began to knit together, and Maddy subsided with a sigh, the crease between her eyes smoothing out as the pain melted away. The mage continued to work, until the wound was no more than a slim pink line, and then slumped back. "That's the best I can do; it should heal neatly." He wearily rose from his knees next to the sofa, and went to help Leliana.

Cedric, the Captain of the King's Own, entered the room, looking with dismay at the unconscious Princess, surrounded by bloody rags. Alistair, who had retaken her hand, and was knelt numbly watching her, looked up sharply, his eyebrows twitching together. "Report," he rapped out.

"We have guards at every exit. My men have quartered the palace, and are conducting a thorough search. If he's still inside, then we'll find him."

The King's voice was dangerously silky, "And how did they get into my bride's room in the first place, Captain?"

"I…I don't know, sire." Cedric's frustration showed clearly. "This was the _one_ night when all my men were off-duty, in here. It seems they were hiding in the maid's chamber, waiting for everyone to leave the Princess alone, but I have no idea how they slipped past the palace guard. I'll conduct a full investigation, I promise."

Alistair's furious posture relaxed. "At ease Captain, I know this is not the fault of you or your men. It's my fault for not leaving some of you on duty."

"In all honesty sire, we _should _be able to leave the palace guard to do their job, or they're not worth their salt. I'll take it up with the Guard Captain tomorrow, but in future you and the queen will _always_ have my men with you."

Alistair nodded, and turned his attention elsewhere. "Anders?"

The mage had finished with Leliana and was recruiting his energies with a tankard of ale. "Yes?"

"Thank you; if you hadn't been here… and you, too, Nathaniel. Thank you."

"All part of the stag night service; beer, party games, and assassination prevention." Anders left his seat to check again on Maddy. "She'll sleep for a while now, but should be fine by morning."

"Which brings us to a very important point, _mes amis; _who tried to assassinate my sister on the eve of her wedding, and why?" Philippe was pacing the room with an uncharacteristic frown.

Leliana and Nathaniel had their heads together, and Leliana looked up at that. "Alistair, are you keeping Maddy here with you for the rest of the night? If so, I think Nate and I will go out into the city while the trail is still fresh, see what we can find out."

Alistair nodded, but then looked at her with a shade of concern. "Provided you're up to it, you've been wounded too."

"It was just a scratch, and Anders is a fine healer."

"Do it then. I don't much care about the assassin, but I want the buyer found." The two rogues left to get arms and armour, and he turned back to look down at his prone, unconscious, bride. "Can I move her, Anders? I'll put her to bed here, where she'll be safe."

"Yes, do so. And get some sleep yourself; you two are getting married in the morning."

Alistair gawked at the mage. "She'll be able to? I can postpone it…"

Captain Cedric jumped in hastily, "I don't recommend postponing it if you can avoid it, sire. Preventing your wedding was the reason for this attack. I would suggest that you not only have the wedding tomorrow, but that you move the coronation up to tomorrow also, if possible."

Alistair looked at him for a moment under heavy brows, and then nodded decisively. "If Maddy is well enough; then I agree. Once she is my wife, and my Queen, I can protect her far better. Get a couple of your men on the doors of these rooms Captain, and then go inform the Chamberlain of the change of plan. Philippe, don't worry; I'll keep her safe from any further harm. Anders, I can't thank you enough for your assistance, now go get some sleep."

"I'll stick around if you don't mind, just in case she has any problems."

"Good idea. You can use the Queen's Chamber; the bed in there is made up, I believe. I'll call you if I need you. In the meantime, get some rest; you've used a lot of energy on healing spells." Alistair carefully picked Maddy up in his arms and carried her into his own bedchamber. She murmured, but didn't wake, as he placed her gently in bed, and pulled the covers over her. Instead of undressing, he threw a dressing robe on over his shirt and trousers for warmth; stretching out next to her on top of the bed, ready to go for help instantly if she needed it. For a long time he watched her sleep, fury and fear curdling in him, preventing his own slumber.

_-oOo-_


	12. Chapter 12

_-oOo-_

Reverting easily to Blight habits, Alistair slept lightly. He woke immediately in the dawn light, when Maddy suddenly jumped and cried out for assistance. "Hush, I'm here, you're safe."

She clutched at him. "Alistair? What happened, how did I get here? Leliana and I were sleeping… and then…it was horrible…I was so afraid…"

"You're safe now, my sweet. Leliana brought you to me, and we got you healed. How are you feeling? Is there any pain?"

"Pain?" She frowned, still bewildered, and put her hand to her side where the nightgown was torn. "No…nothing. Oh, but my gown is covered in dried blood."

"I know. I'm sorry. Everything was a bit of a mess. I should probably have sent someone to get you a clean one."

"W…was I badly hurt? Oh, and Leliana, is she injured? Please, tell me she's alright."

Panic was starting to bubble up in her voice, and he hastened to reassure her. "Leliana is fine, she had a cut on her arm and it's been healed." He stroked her hair gently, and his voice cracked on the next words, "Maddy, I'm so very sorry; I didn't protect you, I…"

She stared at him in surprise, the confusion and panic lifting from her face, exclaiming, "What? No!" She put her hand over his mouth, stopping the rest of the self-recriminations. "It's a risk we live with all the time Alistair, just because of our blood. I've known for years it could happen sometime. Anyway," she removed her hand, and kissed him in a quick, light gesture, "I'll be in here from now on, right? Not going to happen again."

He was dumbstruck. This was no warrior, no warden. How could she be so brave? It humbled him and solidified his determination. "I'm not letting you out of my sight again, until we find out who did this, and execute them. The Queen's Chamber is just one big wardrobe as far as I'm concerned. You'll be with me."

She nodded briskly. "Good," and gave him another quick kiss before jumping out of bed. "Now, for the Maker's sake, get someone to fill that bathtub. We're getting married today, and I'm a mess."

He slid off the bed and walked to the door, stopping with his hand on the handle. "And, you are being crowned too. I've moved it up. If anyone tries anything else I want it clear, and beyond argument, that they are committing treason against the Crown."

She stared at him wide-eyed, and he set his jaw; bound and determined that this was not open to negotiation. But she didn't argue; instead her voice was soft and submissive. "Whatever you think is best."

He blinked in astonishment. Maker knew, he had got used to giving orders this last year, but his experience with women had not led him to believe that they would defer to him so. Not ever. He swallowed and nodded. "Good, I do think so. I want to keep you safe, and that's easier if you are my wife, _and_ my Queen. And there is precedent, I think. As I remember, Anora was crowned immediately after her and Cailan's wedding. Now, I'll get a servant to bring bathwater and breakfast, and I need to find out what's gone on during the night. Don't worry; I'm not leaving you alone. I just have to give some orders, and then I'll be straight back."

"Can you get them to send my maid? And if anyone sees my cats, get them brought here."

Alistair sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Maddy; your maid is dead, they killed her. I'll get one of the palace servants to help you today, and tomorrow I'll find a replacement."

Her breath caught and her eyes were huge. "Dead?" She closed her eyes, and nodded, pressing her lips together.

_-oOo-_

Once it was known that the King had risen from his bed, the reports started to come in. Captain Cedric had sealed the palace up tight as a drum for the night. But there was no way that state of affairs could be maintained on this, of all, days. Tradesmen were already beginning to arrive with the supplies the kitchens needed for the Wedding Feast, and nobles would be flitting in and out all day. All they could do was be thankful that Alistair had decided to hold the ceremony in the Palace chantry, rather than at the Denerim Cathedral. At the time, Bertram had protested that it would limit the attendees. This was now seen as an advantage, and not having to parade their King and Queen through the streets to the Cathedral was an even better one.

No sign had been found of the remaining assassin in the palace, which surprised no-one. He had, undoubtedly, made his escape while Leliana was bringing Maddy to Alistair. The two palace guards who had been stationed outside Maddy's room were found to have been knocked unconscious with a contact poison, and were yet to be questioned.

Leliana was still asleep, having got back to the palace very late. As she would be busy all day assisting Maddy, the king ordered her left alone for now. Nathaniel was awake, and came as soon as he heard Alistair was asking for him. He reported that they had not been able to find the assassin, but a couple of things had been ascertained. One was that they were not Crows, their modus operandi was all wrong. And the other was that they were, almost certainly, not local boys either. The local crime lords' responses had been somewhat indignant when Leliana and Nate crashed in on them, and both went along the same lines – how stupid did they look, to try to kill the King's bride? Leliana and Nathaniel had been assured that no-one in their right mind, in the Denerim underground, would take such a contract. And, that if it turned out that anyone had; they would be deposited on the palace steps forthwith. Alistair had a towering reputation as two things, a fair-minded man, and a fearsome killer. Those who made their, rather unfair and shadowy, livelihood on his doorstep had no intention of attracting his interest.

For the moment, Alistair had to be satisfied with this. On any other day he would have been giving orders to have the city torn apart, if necessary, but today was not an ordinary day.

_-oOo-_

When Maddy finished bathing, and headed into Alistair's sitting room - '_our sitting room'_ she reminded herself - in search of breakfast, she found a blond mage ensconced on the sofa, under a heap of multi-shaded ginger fur that had more than the usual number of legs.

"Good morning. Hey, is this one yours?" he demanded, tickling the paler apricot fur on his lap. "She's _cuuute_, isn't she Ser Pounce-a-Lot?" The darker, ginger part of the tangled heap raised its head, and regarded her from deep green eyes, that were quite unlike Claudia's yellow ones.

Maddy tried to pull together her thoughts, and the lapels of the overlong dressing robe she'd stolen from Alistair's wardrobe. "Yes, that's Claudia; she's a sweetie. Although, I'm surprised she's so comfortable with your cat."

"Oh, Pounce is special. So, how are you this morning; any pain?"

"What? Oh…no, I'm fine. You healed me?" That, at least partially, explained why he was lounging on Alistair's sofa.

"Yep, that was me. Don't you remember?" He shook his head ruefully. "The problem with being an unparalleled healer is that your patients are so rarely conscious to admire your best work." He carefully untangled and moved the cats, causing some mewling protests. "Let's have a look at the scar then, make sure everything is as it should be."

Her face flamed. "What? No…I'm… not wearing anything under this."

"Oh, well, go put something on, then. I need to examine you to ensure you're fit for the wedding."

Maddy decided it was about time she took charge of this conversation. Maker's Blood, these Ferelden men were so _pushy_. "You're going to have to wait, all my clothes are in…that room." She spied the breakfast trays and made her way over to them. "Do you want some breakfast?"

"Well, I already plundered the tray once, but if you are offering… " He laughed at her surprised face. "Get used to it, Your Highness; you're marrying a Grey Warden. Keep your hands away from his face at mealtimes, and you shouldn't lose any fingers."

"Unless she's holding cheese." Alistair appeared in the doorway, followed by a maid, and a number of servants carrying clothes and toiletries, "In which case, I guarantee nothing." The servants passed into the Queen's bedchamber to deposit their burdens, and, all bar the maid, bowed and left. The activities of the maid could be heard through the open door, shaking out clothes and hanging them up.

Alistair lifted Maddy's chin to give her a searching look. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he released her and turned his attention to the breakfast trays. "Grab as much breakfast as you want, Anders. I've already asked for more to be brought up. I suspect half the palace will be in and out of this room in the next hour or two, so I may as well get them all fed while they report. Maker knows, none of us will get another chance until the Wedding Feast this evening."

"Keeping the courtiers fed, eh? I'm in the wrong job." Anders got himself a plate, and speared some bacon. Maddy filled her own plate, avoiding the hideous black discs of pudding, and settled down to eat.

The King waved his fork, chewed and swallowed. "Funny you should say that. Do you think your Commander would be willing to spare you for a while?"

Anders raised a surprised eyebrow. "Maybe, it's been pretty quiet recently. Why, what do you have in mind?"

Alistair frowned in thought and bit into a sausage. "Our Court Mage was recalled to the Tower last week. I have to wonder why, and who they'll send instead. In all honesty, Anders, I don't trust the new Grand Cleric, and I trust the new Knight Commander even less. They are _both_ the worst kind of fanatics. I have a feeling things are going to get ugly for mages in Ferelden, and it'll be up to me to remind the Chantry that mages are _my_ subjects, not theirs. With that in mind, I'd rather have you here than some Chantry puppet-mage. If you are willing to double as Court Mage and Warden Ambassador for a while, I'll have a good excuse to send their selection right back to them. Also, I'll be happier having someone here who is an expert healer; given what happened last night."

"The Grand Cleric will have a hissy-fit if you install me as Court Mage. She still thinks of me as an apostate."

"Well, that's the core of the problem, isn't it? She has no damn right to have a fit; you're a Warden and so am I. Your history of apostasy is no more relevant than my history as a Templar initiate. If you were a blood mage, it would be different. I've _never_ approved of the fact that the Wardens have historically allowed them to Join."

"True, but do you really want to rub her nose in it? Not that I object, of course." Anders' grin was as mischievous as a boy, and once again Maddy was struck by how alike these two were. "But, entertaining as it'll be, it might not be very politic."

Alistair shook his head, folding bacon inside bread and adding some kind of brown goo, the smell of which made Maddy feel slightly queasy. "One of the things I've learnt this last year, is that _politic_ is not always the way to behave in _politics, _especially when you technically outrank everyone else_._ Leanna and Cullen will undoubtedly have their own ideas on where so-called Chantry Law supersedes Ferelden law. I'm guessing I'm not going to agree with those ideas one bit. I'm_ not_ going to wait and be put on the back foot, reacting to their actions. If appointing you as Court Mage sends them a message regarding my stance, then I consider that a good thing. Hopefully it will give them pause."

Maddy finished her breakfast, and poured some tea. She was finding that Alistair here, and Alistair in Orlais, were two very different beasts. In Orlais, he had been a little shy and vulnerable, presumably because he was out of his element. Here, she was seeing him in his own environment, and he was much more confident. The vulnerable boy was adorable, but she had to admit that the self-assured man was _very_ attractive.

Anders stroked his cat thoughtfully. "I'll mention it to Commander Leonie. I have no idea how she'll respond though; she makes oysters appear forthcoming." He raised an eyebrow at Maddy. "Now then, Your Highness, how about putting some clothes on, so I can examine you?"

She nodded and finished her tea hurriedly. "I will, if you promise to call me Maddy."

"Maddy it is, then. Go make yourself decent, woman. I don't want to risk being beheaded by your husband for seeing unseemly queen bits."

_-oOo-_

While Anders examined Maddy, Alistair finished his own breakfast quickly, and called for hot water so he could bathe. They had risen very early, but there was still a great deal to be done before the wedding itself drove everything out of his head. The fact that someone had the unmitigated gall to attack Maddy inside the palace - and on the night before their wedding no less - made him so angry that he didn't dare think about it head on. Instead he broke it down into a series of tasks that had to be performed. He ticked them off in his head. Talk to the Palace Guard Captain; find out what was wrong with the palace security, and fix it. Get the guards who had been outside Maddy's door questioned. Talk to Leliana about what had actually happened in the room; she was likely to have a clearer picture than Maddy. Fill Eamon in on the situation; he had cried off from the stag last night, claiming he was too old to be anything other than a burden on the party. Get a new maid for Maddy.

He frowned over the last one, wondering if there was a better alternative than simply finding a member of the palace staff. As a result of his deliberations, he dashed off a quick note while he was waiting for hot water to arrive, and despatched it to the alienage.

Anders breezed back in from the Queen's Chamber. "Your young lady is fine, and amazingly robust about the whole thing. I would have expected her to be in hysterics by now." He shrugged. "It could still happen, mind, so be prepared. I've seen it before with violent injuries; one minute they're behaving normally, the next they're in a damp ball."

"I'll keep an eye on her; she's not getting out of my sight again today if I can help it." Alistair arose from his desk, and offered the mage his hand. "You saved her life last night, you and Nathaniel. I won't forget it, thank you."

He took the King's hand, flushing slightly. "You're both welcome." Embarrassment gave way to the usual cheeky grin. "Of course, when you find out that your queen just hugged me _in her bedroom_, you might not feel so grateful. Gosh, did I just say that out loud?"

Alistair's laugh was full and rich. "You did, and you really don't surprise me. I suspect by the end of the week she'll have half the court eating out of her hand, and will have floored the other half in a temper." He wiggled his eyebrows in mock-deviousness. "Maybe she's the lynchpin of Celene's cunning plot to overthrow me?"

_-oOo-_

Having finished his bath, dried and dressed, Alistair emerged from his bedchamber just as a footman knocked at the door. "There are some… _people_ here to see you, Your Majesty. They say you asked for them."

Alistair scowled, and the footman took a step back. "People?" He only knew one set of people that caused the word to be used in _that_ tone of voice, and he didn't encourage it in his home. "I assume you are referring to Hahren Valendrian, and Shianni Tabris, who are here at my invitation. Is there some reason you didn't introduce them as such?"

"Er…no sire, I'm sorry sire."

"Show them in please, and arrange some refreshments for my guests." Alistair hated having to be high-handed with the servants, or anyone in fact, but after all the things he had experienced during the Blight, he just couldn't tolerate racism. He'd seen too many good, kind people of the, so-called, 'inferior' races mistreated.

"Of course, sire, I believe the breakfast you ordered is due. I'll chase it up." The abashed footman retreated at speed; returning with the two elves, and bowing them into the room with meticulous formality.

"Greetings, Your Majesty." The Hahren's voice and manner were as smooth and mellifluous as always. Alistair would love to get this man into the Landsmeet, but hadn't figured out a way to slide it past the nobles yet.

"Good morning, Your Majesty." Shianni's abrupt manner always made him smile. She was so alive, and in some ways reminded him of Maddy.

"Valendrian, Shianni, thank you for coming so swiftly, please be seated. Have you breakfasted? Additional refreshments are on their way."

Until the footman returned with the trays, Alistair kept the conversation to polite trivialities. Both elves seemed nervous, as was only to be expected having been summoned to see the king, especially so early in the morning, and directly to his private sitting room. Their expectations in dealings with the nobles were not high. Once they had been served with tea, and encouraged to avail themselves of breakfast, the footman withdrew, and the real conversation could begin.

"I imagine you're wondering why I asked to see you," began Alistair, hastening to reassure them, "don't worry, it's nothing bad about your people."

Valendrian must have been holding his breath, as he now released it suddenly. "I have to say, I'm relieved to hear it, sire."

"Actually, I need a favour from you. If you can assist me, I can offer an excellent position to one of your own, but in order to achieve this I will need you to trust me." He was hoping that his pre-coronation history with them would provide that trust. He was about to ask them to confess that one of their number was breaking the law, after all.

Shianni leaned forward, watching the king intently. She was the one who had most dealings with the Blight Companions, and he was relying on that to get their co-operation. "What is it you need?"

Alistair wasn't sure how this would go down with Valendrian, but he was pretty sure bluntness would work best with Shianni. "I need a lady's maid for my wife. I want one who is weapons trained, and can be absolutely trusted to protect her. I was hoping that you could recommend someone suitable."

They looked startled and exchanged worried glances, so he hastened to reassure them. "Look, I couldn't care less about the restriction on elves bearing arms. May I remind you that I am a Grey Warden, and I know perfectly well that Duncan used to recruit in the Alienage. My only concern is to ensure Queen Madeleina's safety, and I feel that you two can be trusted to put forward someone who you are absolutely sure cannot be subverted."

Valendrian folded his hands together. "May I ask why you feel the need to have an armed maid for the Queen?"

Alistair grimaced. "I imagine it's all over the city by now, and if not, it soon will be. Still, I would appreciate your discretion with this information. Someone sent assassins after her, last night."

"Maker's hairy balls, really?"

"Shianni! Moderate your language, please." The Hahren's expression was apologetic. "I'm very sorry, sire. Do you know why she was attacked?"

The king made no attempt to hide his amusement; in fact he practically winked at Shianni. "Actually, I think it's quite apt." His smile became a little twisted. "My best guess is because she's Orlesian. There are still older people left from the Occupation, who are too short-sighted on the subject to recognise that she hadn't even been born then. I want her completely protected until I find the culprits, and well protected ever after. She'll have guards of course but," he shrugged, "there are plenty of places a guard doesn't follow her, while her maid will."

The two elves were exchanging looks again, and an accord seemed to be reached. It was Valendrian who responded. "We _might_ have someone, Your Majesty, someone who has the necessary skills, but she can be a bit…difficult."

"Difficult?"

Shianni stepped in with the unvarnished version. "My cousin Kallian makes me look polite and well-mannered, and she's not fond of male nobles – with good reason, I might add. So, unless you want a few noble houses to lose the ability to make heirs, you might want to ensure your guests keep their hands to themselves. She hasn't a problem with female nobles as far as I know, but your fiancée might not like her."

Alistair blinked, and then burst out laughing, "She sounds fascinating. But you are right; I don't want someone Maddy doesn't like. Ask her if she's interested in the position. If so, we can get them in the same room anytime from tomorrow and see how they gel."

He stood to see his guests out, adding as they reached the door, "Oh, and by the way, if _anyone_ tries to force themselves on an unwilling partner under my roof, then she's welcome to cut off any bits that take her fancy."

_-oOo-_

"Sire, the guards have no memory of anyone attacking them. They both say the same thing. There was a trickle of guests leaving her Highness' room, over a period of about half an hour. They heard the door open behind them, and assumed it was another guest leaving. That's the last thing they know."

Leliana sat forward, hands clasped, giving the Guard Captain all her attention. "What time was this?"

"They can't be certain, my lady, but they are both clear that it was after ten bells, and before eleven."

"Maker's Breath, Leliana, it was after midnight when you and Maddy came here. How were the guards knocked out so early?"

Leliana made a tiny nod towards the Guard Captain, and Alistair turned to him. "Thank you Captain, I'll let you know if I need anything further."

"As you wish, sire." He bowed. "Good day, sire, my lady."

Only after the door closed behind him did Leliana speak. "There is only one way, and one reason, Alistair. It had to be the last guest to leave." Leliana looked troubled, and drew a deep breath. "You aren't going to like this."

Alistair went utterly still. "Go on."

"It_ had_ to be the last guest to leave. I heard eleven bells sound as I was drifting to sleep. No-one else could have crossed our rooms to the door before then, without me seeing, or hearing, them." He gave a grim nod, waiting to hear the bad news. Leliana continued with her assessment. "The last guest to leave will have knocked the guards out, to ensure that they couldn't hear the assassins at work inside the room, and give the alarm. With a contact poison it will only have taken a touch; a handkerchief to the back of the neck or hand, anything where skin was showing. If the attack had succeeded, I expect the assassins would have popped out of the room just long enough to slit the guards throats and leave no witnesses."

"Who was it?"

"Lady Sighard."

"_What_?" Alistair's expression was a mixture of hurt, anger and bewilderment. "But… Bann Sighard has always been one of my more ardent supporters. We rescued his son Oswyn from Howe's clutches."

She sighed. "I know Alistair; I was at Eamon's estate that day, but I heard about it."

He shook his head slowly, still not wanting to believe it. Then his head came up sharply, his expression murderous. "Oswyn was in my rooms when you carried Maddy in. He was _here_. The cold-blooded little _bastard_." He surged to his feet, heading to the door.

Leliana reached out, trying to hold him back. "Wait Alistair, you _can't _assume the whole family was involved."

"Yes, I damned well can. _If _they weren't, then they have to prove it to _my_ satisfaction." He flung open the door and addressed the startled King's Own guard stationed outside. "I want Bann Sighard, Lady Sighard and their son Oswyn placed under arrest for the attempted murder of the… oh, for the Maker's sake, _what_?" This last was addressed to a footman who had approached during that speech, and was taking the unprecedented, and somewhat dangerous, step of trying to interrupt an angry King.

"Your Majesty, my sincere apologies for interrupting, but I was on my way to tell you. Bann Sighard and his son are _here_, and requesting an interview with you on a matter of grave urgency."

_-oOo-_


	13. Chapter 13

_-oOo-_

Alistair left the Dragon's Peak Bann, and his heir, to kick their heels, while he made some preparations. He was far too furious to think clearly, but not so out of control that he couldn't see the sense of allowing cooler heads to make some suggestions. As a result of these, a squad of troops were sent to the Bann's city estate to secure the exits, in case this was a ploy to allow Lady Sighard time to get away. Servants were sent to get Eamon and Philippe out of bed, and to ask Anders to rejoin them also. In the meantime, Alistair went to get changed. He had been quite happy to conduct all the other interviews that morning informally, but he had no intention of wearing shirt and trousers for this one, or of inviting the Bann into his sitting room.

Therefore, when the footman was finally permitted to announce the Bann of Dragon's Peak, and his son, into the King's throne room, they were greeted with full formality. The King was seated on his throne, in shining gold and silver-chased armour, crowned, and with his sword across his knee. He was flanked by his Chancellor, and two other advisors. One was a beautiful redhead known to have been one of the Blight Companions, and the other was an obviously powerful mage. Philippe, despite really wanting to be there, had submitted to Alistair's request that he stay with his sister. Alistair didn't want to subject Maddy to this interview, and was not prepared to let her out of his sight unless her brother took his place.

Oswyn paled when they entered, the implications obviously not lost on him. By tradition, the King was only seated with a sword across his knee for a trial, and every noble in the land knew it. He limped forward, leaning heavily on his stick, and knelt before his liege lord. Bann Sighard, on the other hand, looked haggard and ill. He reacted not at all to the implied threat, merely slumping into his obeisance.

King Alistair left them on one knee before him, clearly demonstrating the King's severe displeasure. This was coupled with the hard glare bent upon them, and his white knuckles where he gripped the hilt of his sword.

"I understand you requested an audience. Speak." His voice was gritty and harsh, quite unlike his usual mellow tones.

The Bann made an obvious effort. He straightened his slumped posture, and looked up at his King. The lines in his face had deepened since the Reception the previous evening, and his eyes reflected profound grief, and shame. "Your Majesty, I have come to inform you that my wife…" His voice broke slightly, and he gritted his teeth before continuing, "…that my wife is imprisoned in the dungeon of my estate, awaiting your pleasure. She…" Again he stopped, and looked pleadingly at his son, who stepped in, and took over.

"Your Majesty, one of our own soldiers broke into our estate late last night, coming over the wall instead of through the gates; he was caught by the Guard Captain. The Captain thought he was just breaking curfew, and threw him into a cell overnight.

My… mother broke him out, but he was recaptured outside the gates." Oswyn's face expressed his hurt, angry disbelief. "We didn't know at first; we found out this morning, after… after Father found her trying to… hang herself." The young man's voice wavered; he swallowed and continued. "She'd written a note, claiming all responsibility for the attempted assassination of Princesse Madeleina." He looked up at his King pleadingly. "Sire, please believe, my Father and I knew nothing of this, we would never have allowed…"

His father cut him off. "Enough, Oswyn." He raised his head, tilting his chin determinedly. "Sire, I would _never_ have condoned a plot against you, or your bride. Neither would my son. But this is my wife. My own _wife _has committed treason." His face contorted with rage, shame and grief. "You are entirely within your rights to enact punishment upon my entire House. I, for one, deserve it, for permitting this to happen under my nose, within my own _family_. I will accept whatever judgement you wish to make, and accept it gladly."

There was silence when he finished speaking, while King Alistair digested this. Leliana murmured in his ear, and he nodded. "I will not permit this matter to disrupt today's celebrations any further. A message shall be sent to the unit of soldiers who already surround your estate, instructing them to take the prisoners to Fort Drakon. As for you two," his gaze was still hard, but the fire had gone from his eyes, "in view of the fact that you came to me of your own free will, you will be conducted to comfortable rooms here in the palace. You will remain under heavy guard, until this entire matter has been investigated to my satisfaction. Until then, you will be treated with the respect due to your rank."

He gestured, finally permitting them to rise. The palace guards arrayed around the walls sprung to life, forming up around the two men. The Bann nodded slowly. "You are generous, sire. I thank you for your mercy for my boy, if not for myself."

The King sheathed his sword, signifying that the hearing was at an end. Only once they, and their guards, had left, did the King give way to Alistair again, as he released his breath explosively. "Maker's blood, what a mess. Eamon, what am I to do? I'm pretty sure they're telling me the truth, and we should be able to confirm it one way or the other. Do I really have to strip Bann Sighard of his land, and title, for this? Just because of what his wife has done?"

Eamon appeared unmoved. "Certainly that will be what is expected of you. If you don't, then you will be leaving yourself open to a great deal of trouble in the future. The penalty for treason is harsh for good cause."

Alistair pulled off the heavy crown, slinging it over the arm of the throne, leaving his hands free to rub his face and hair. "I really don't want to think about this, right now. I'm getting married in a few hours, for Andraste's sake."

"Agreed," Eamon gave a discreet cough, "and, perhaps we should be discussing it without an audience."

Alistair looked at the Arl with blank incomprehension, and then realisation dawned. He set his jaw, and folded his arms. "We don't have an audience, Eamon, only my advisors are present."

Eamon's disapproval was palpable. "I can understand you referring to Leliana so, although I understood her appointment to be only while we were in Orlais, but I was not aware that you numbered a Grey Warden amongst your advisors."

Alistair stared at him a moment, then his lips twitched in slight amusement, and he turned his head. "Leliana dear?"

"Alistair?"

"Would you like to be my Spymaster? Considering the extent of Celene's ability to gather information, I think I need one."

Her eyes twinkled with merriment. "I'd be honoured, Your Majesty."

"Hey, less of the Majesties, minx." He turned his head the other way, ignoring Eamon's sour expression completely. "Anders?"

"Yes, O Great and Glorious Kingie?"

The "great and glorious kingie" snorted in amusement. "Have you spoken to the Commander yet?"

"Not yet, it's been a busy morning, all in all."

"Well, do so as soon as possible, please." Alistair finally turned to Eamon. "I've offered Anders the position of Court Mage, provided his Commander will release him for a time."

Eamon's disapproval deepened significantly, and his tone became censorious. "Alistair, that would be a very bad idea, the Chantry…"

"No." The King's hand slashed down emphatically. "I am _not_ going to do what placates the Chantry. Maker's Breath, have you _seen_ the pair of maniacs in charge, nowadays? Do you _really_ want one of their pawns here, in our confidence? Anyway," he arose from the throne, and stretched, "I'm not going to discuss this, or anything else, today. It's my wedding day and I've done enough. I'm going to tell Philippe and Maddy what's happened, and then I'm off duty, or at least, as off duty as a king ever gets."

Eamon bowed slightly, condemnation still evident in every line. "As you wish. Now if you'll excuse me, I also have a great deal to do."

After he left, Leliana squealed with delight and hugged her friend, as far as was possible, around his massive armour. "Our little king is growing up, yes? Alistair, I'm so _proud_ of you."

He huffed, and extricated himself from her embrace, his usual good temper restored. "It's been a while since I let him treat me like a child, Leliana, there's no need for all this enthusiasm. I know half the Landsmeet thinks I'm a puppet King, but it's not true. Or at least, I hope it isn't. As you're staying on, I want you to tell me if you see anyone pulling my strings, alright?"

She put her hand over her heart, smiling merrily. "I promise."

Behind him, Anders gave a sly smirk. "Oh, the answer to that one is _easy_; his wife will be, of course."

_-oOo-_

Leliana carefully placed the wreath of white flowers on Maddy's head. Her hair was loose. It had been combed until she begged for mercy, and now obediently lay in ordered waves down her back.

"Provided there's not a speck of damp in the air, it may even stay that way," groused the bride.

Her Maid of Honour poked her in the back. "It's a beautiful day and you know it. Anyway, it's traditional for a bride to wear her hair loose for a wedding. And you look lovely; so petite, and with that glorious hair, and gorgeous eyes. You are every inch a Queen."

Maddy sighed. "If I had a few more inches, I might even be every inch an adult."

Leliana cast her eyes over her friend, and smiled knowingly. "My darling you have _plenty_ of inches. With those curves, no-one could take you for anything other than a grown woman." She looked over at the maid, who was tidying the room after their preparations and lowered her voice. "Speaking of which, did you use the…?"

Maddy giggled. "Yes I did, weeks ago. Maker, you didn't tell me how difficult it would be. Every time I tried, I broke into cold sweats, and had to stop. It took me nearly two hours to pluck up the courage to… push… enough. You could have warned me."

Her friend looked sympathetic. "Perhaps it would have been easier during the act itself, when you don't have to summon the nerve, but I wanted your wedding night to be wonderful. I'm sorry."

A fierce hug put her mind at rest, while seriously endangering the bride's dress. "Don't be. It's all done now, and I have nothing to fear today."

_-oOo-_

Alistair prowled nervously around the sitting-room, picking things up and putting them back down, fiddling with ornaments. His prospective brother-in-law sprawled elegantly in a chair, and watched him with a mixture of amusement, and sympathy.

"_Mon cher_, you are very fatiguing, and in all that armour, too. Really, if I had known my sister was to marry an ambulatory golem doll, I would have withheld my permission. All this exertion will undoubtedly make you sweat, and rust." The Orlesian prince appeared charmed by this notion. "We shall be obliged to fit you with wheels, so that, when you seize up, Maddy can pull you along on a string. What a delightful spectacle you will make, being wheeled down the aisle."

"Oh, you're _so _funny. How come Celene never made you her Court Jester?" Alistair had, at the very least, stopped prowling now, distracted by his tormentor.

Philippe looked shocked to the core. "You don't think I risked going anywhere near her, do you? No, my dear friend, a thousand times no. My illustrious sister is a terrifying woman; even now, I'm not convinced I'm far enough away from her."

Alistair quirked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. "I find it hard to imagine you being afraid of anything, to be truthful."

Philippe smiled urbanely. "Don't be deceived by my _savoir faire,_ and immaculate tailoring, _mon ami_. I am shaking in my boots, I assure you." The door to the Queen's Chamber opened, and he leapt to his feet, both men turning to the door immediately.

Maddy stood in the doorway, looking a little shy. Her wedding gown was in the traditional blue, cut with the fashionable Orlesian full skirt. She wore a delicate wreath of white rosebuds, glossy green leaves, and Andraste's grace on her soft brown hair. For jewellery, she had chosen to wear only her delicate gold necklace of leaves and vines, which Alistair had bought for her in Val Royeaux market. Her face was prettily flushed, and her green eyes wide and bright. Philippe beamed fondly. "_Ma belle soeur_, you are positively radiant." He held out his hands to his sister, and she ran forward to hug him.

"Maddy dear, have a care for your dress." Leliana's admonishment lacked force, containing equal parts amusement and resignation. She cast a sly glance over to where Alistair stood rooted to the spot, staring at his bride, and a smile tugged at her lips.

Maddy hugged her brother even tighter. "No, I won't. I'd rather have hugs and a crushed gown, than no hugs." She released Philippe and turned, faltering a little under Alistair's smouldering gaze. She smiled at him tentatively. "All that armour… and weapons. Are we under attack?"

Alistair flushed, coming out of his trance. "Oh… the armour… it's… um… traditional, for a Ferelden King who is martial trained." He gave her a crooked smile. "Why, don't you like it?"

"I…" She blushed, then gave him a straight look, saying with her usual honesty, "You look… magnificent, but a little scary."

His smile outshone even the gilded armour and heavy gold crown. "You are…beautiful, incredible, and you never need to be afraid of me."

She eyed him dubiously. "I'm not sure how to hug you though, there seems to be such a lot of you."

"I only have to wear this for the wedding ceremony, and your coronation. Then I can change, and you can have all the hugs you desire." His eyes promised her more than that, and she blushed again.

Leliana murmured to Philippe, "Oh, to have a man look at me like that."

He sighed wistfully. "My thoughts exactly, my dear."

_-oOo-_

Madeleina clung to the rigid metal forearm of her groom, and concentrated on not tripping. The echoes of the fanfare, greeting their arrival, had not yet died away. Those echoes mixed with the rustling whispers of the congregation, magnified by the acoustics of the chantry. Necks were being craned to get an early glimpse of them. A Chantry ceremony was one of the only occasions when people were permitted to remain in their seats, on the arrival of royalty. Ostensibly, the reason was that they were all equal in the eyes of the Maker. Practically, it probably had something to do with all those benches. Getting everyone to one knee would be hideously complicated.

They made it the rest of the way down the aisle without incident, and Maddy raised her eyes to the face of the Grand Cleric. So this was the woman Alistair was so wary of, the one who had appointed that weird Templar. She didn't look anything like Maddy had expected. This was not the lean, stern visage of the fanatical ascetic, but rather the soft, ravaged face of the overindulgent. She had chubby cheeks, and bad skin. Like a middle-aged noblewoman; one who spent too much time eating chocolates. But, her dark eyes were hard, and knowing. There was no softness there, at all.

The King, and his prospective Queen, knelt before the representative of the Maker, and resigned themselves to a dull and lengthy ceremony. The Grand Cleric began to intone one of the lengthier sections of the Chant.

_-oOo-_

Between the wedding, and the coronation, there was a brief break for refreshment. Although performed by the Grand Cleric, the coronation would, by custom, be held in the throne room, not the chantry. Therefore, an opportunity must be given for all the guests to make their way there. The bride and groom, having left the chantry first, and being expected at the throne room last, had a little more time available. Alistair snagged his wife's hand, and pulled her into a side chamber, where they could seize a moment of privacy. The wedding ceremony had been an agony of elaborate pomposity, and unromantic in the extreme.

He shut the door, and leant against it, still with her hand caught in his. She laughed up at him. "Very sneaky, how long do we have?"

He smiled down at her, pulling her forward by the hand. "Maybe ten minutes, long enough for me to kiss my wife before she gets snatched away again by protocol."

She scowled at the tiresome armour, and settled, as women had for hundreds of years, for reaching up, and wrapping her arms around his neck. His gauntleted hand cupped her head gently, and their first kiss as man and wife was tender and sweet.

_-oOo-_

The golden circlet hovered over the bent head of his wife, as the Grand Cleric intoned the final phrases. The bridal wreath having been set aside, ready to be tossed to the ladies later, her brown tresses were bare. Compared to the lengthy coronation ceremony _he_ had been obliged to endure, the crowning of a Queen Consort was comparatively simple. For which they were both thankful.

The King sat on his throne, in state, waiting to lead his Queen to the empty throne beside him. A footstool had thoughtfully been set before it for, as she had pointed out earlier, swinging her feet like a child might not provide _quite_ the sense of regal elegance they needed to aim for.

"In the sight the Maker, we who serve Him swear to uphold you, as Defender of this Land, and Royal Consort of our Sovereign Lord." The hovering crown finally settled, and the watching crowd signified their approval with cheers, and applause.

As the King arose to extend his hand to his new Queen, he saw Leliana out of the corner of his eye. She stood with his other advisors, carefully examining the varying reactions of the nobles. He smothered a grin, and solemnly led his Queen to her throne, whispering words of encouragement to her, before retaking his own seat. Now they just had to hand out the honours that had been planned, run the gauntlet of the nobles' congratulations, and they would be home and dry.

_-oOo-_

Leliana could hear the murmurings around the hall, as the various nobles and dignitaries awaited their turn to approach the thrones, and congratulate the King and Queen.

There were open discussions of the assassination attempt on the Queen the previous night. Hardly surprising, considering that there were so many noblemen in Alistair's room last night when she staggered in. Congratulations to their faces (and sniping behind their backs) for the new Teyrn of Gwaren, the Arls of Denerim and Redcliffe, and the Bann of Amaranthine City. Sour comments abounded about the remarkable good fortune of the Guerrins. She heard plenty of whispers concerning the notable absence of the entire Dragon's Peak clan. A variety of rumours were being put forward as the reason; ranging from them having been executed out of hand for unknown reasons, to them staying at home to snub the Orlesian-born Queen. There were some grumbles about the presence of elves at the ceremony, both wild and urban, with most of the nobles keeping them at a distance.

It caused a few raised eyebrows when Anders took up an advisor's position, at the shoulder of the King. Commander Leonie had given her permission, on the condition that Anders also took on supervision of the Warden compound in Denerim, thus freeing up another senior Warden to return to Amaranthine. It seemed, for one glorious moment, like Knight Commander Cullen was going to swallow his own tongue at the sight of the former apostate at the King's right hand. It couldn't be denied that Anders' bland smile in his direction was a shade inflammatory. But, Grand Cleric Leanna rapped out a few words to her Commander, and he settled down to a steady glower. The First Enchanter didn't exactly look happy about it either, but then Anders had never made any secret of the fact that their history was not a happy one.

Having circled the hall, Leliana threaded her way back to Alistair and Maddy, just in time to see the Dalish party offer their congratulations. The Keeper offered the King her warm congratulations on his nuptials with no more than a polite inclination of the head, which wasn't at all surprising, really. The Dalish did not accept the Ferelden King as their monarch, any more than they accepted the authority of the Chantry. What was odd, and caused a sudden, surprised silence, was the respectful bow offered to the Queen, not only by the Keeper, but also her two, rather fierce and alien-looking, male attendants. Leliana raised her eyebrows at Alistair, who gave a tiny shrug; she would have to see if she could find out more, herself.

_-oOo-_

"Your Eminence, he's an abomination in the eyes of the Maker. We can't allow this. A blood mage influencing the mind of a King! I should cut him down where he stands."

The Grand Cleric's response was forbidding. "We will not discuss this here, Knight Commander."

On Cullen's other side, the First Enchanter raised his eyebrows, and inserted his six coppers worth, in his usual measured manner. "I have never had any reason to believe that young Anders resorted to Blood Magic. If he applied a fraction of the discipline he brings to his magic to his personal life, I have no doubt that he would have been as fine a member of the Circle as Wynne."

After a fractional pause, the Grand Cleric's response was as smooth and bland as milk. "As you say, First Enchanter."

_-oOo-_

"Good evening Keeper Lanaya, it's a pleasure to see you here."

"_Anderan ati'shan. _You are one of the king's advisors, are you not? I'm afraid I don't recall your name." The Keeper's greeting was warm and friendly. Leliana had to wonder what Ferelden's relations with the Dalish would be like, without this woman as a go-between.

She gave the Keeper her best smile. "I am Leliana, and more of a personal friend to both the King and Queen, than an official advisor. How have you found our celebrations, so far?"

A small smile tugged at the Keeper's mouth. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, there has been a great deal of ceremony, and little celebration, so far."

"This is true, but I think all that part is now over. The rest of the day should be far more fun. There will be feasting, and music, and dancing. Hopefully, we can show you that we are not all pomp and ceremony." Leliana moved smoothly to her real reason for this conversation. "At least now all the presentations are finished; was that the first time you have spoken with Queen Madeleina?"

"Not at all, we came yesterday to plant a_ Vhen'alath, _a Family Tree, for them. Your new Queen is a very charming, and unceremonious, woman." Lanaya's eyes twinkled a little. "I can't imagine she is enjoying all this, any more than we are."

"I couldn't help but notice; you behaved differently towards her, than you did towards the King. Is that a Dalish custom, to treat a female ruler differently?"

Leliana recognised the look the Keeper gave her. It was the one all Dalish used, when they thought a human was being unusually dense. "We gave her the honour due to a _Vhen'alas'mamae_. Don't you do so?"

The bard openly displayed her ignorance, playing on Dalish pride. "I'm sorry Keeper; I have no idea what you mean. What is a Venala-what-was-the-rest?"

"A _Vhen'alas'mamae_; in your language a Land Mother, although I think Land Nurturer would perhaps be closer."

_They bowed to her because she's a _gardener_? How odd. _"You mean, because she grows things?"

"More than that; a _Vhen'alas'mamae _improves the land, contributes to its health and growth in larger ways than the mere planting of seeds. It is a rare and precious skill, among the Dalish."

Leliana nodded in sudden comprehension. "I think I understand what you mean, we would use the word horticulturist, and yes, Madeleina is definitely one of those. I saw her make many improvements to her garden in Orlais."

The Keeper looked vaguely horrified. "To limit her talents to a mere garden is to throw away a gift from the gods. I trust she will be offered wider scope to speak to the _Vhen'alas _here. We would consider it a privilege if she would visit with us, the forest could benefit greatly from her assistance."

Leliana beamed delightedly. "I suspect that Maddy would adore the opportunity to learn forestry, and I would love to accompany her, if you wouldn't mind. I would like very much to hear some of your lore, and songs. I'll mention it to her, but I have no idea when she will have the opportunity. Please don't be offended if it takes a little while to arrange."

"_Ma serannas, _Leliana. We shall be pleased to greet you, when the time comes."

_-oOo-_

The Chamberlain had scheduled a longer break before the evening's entertainments, so that the palace guests could rest, and change their clothes, if they wished. For those who did not so desire, drinks continued to flow in one of the reception rooms.

Once Alistair was safely ensconced in his bedchamber, peeling off armour, Maddy slipped into the sitting room to make some preparations. Once these were ready, she waited impatiently, listening carefully for his approach.

_-oOo-_

Having changed into some lightweight, summer finery, Alistair found the door handle strangely resistant to his tug. "What the…"

"Shut your eyes Alistair, I have a surprise for you." Maddy's voice was full of suppressed excitement, like a child at a treat.

"Oh, really?" Her tone was making him suspicious. Childlike glee can be good, or it can mean being setup to look like an idiot; the latter had happened to him far more. "Is this good surprise, or bad surprise?"

"I'm hoping you'll like it; have you shut your eyes?"

"Yes." The door opened, and a small hand tucked into his. She led him forward carefully, threading around furniture. He thought they were heading towards the big table near the window, but it was difficult to be sure.

"Alright, you can open your eyes now." He did so, blinking a little in the sunlight streaming through the window. Spread out on the table, in front of him, was an array of small figurines. Each was maybe three inches high, made of moulded metal, and painted with meticulous detail.

"Wow." He stared at it all in wonder, suddenly feeling about ten years old.

There was a unit of soldiers, and another of archers, all in the uniform of the King's army. At each end of the tiny army, a banner bearer waved the Ferelden insignia; two dogs rampant supporting a golden crown. A pack of mabari appeared about to leap forward, and at the very front stood a single figure, in golden armour.

Shyness and excitement mixed in Maddy's tone. "It's your wedding present. Leliana told me that you like such things. I had it specially commissioned, from the finest toymaker in Val Royeaux. I… I hope you like it."

"Like it? It's fantastic!" He whooped like a small boy, picked her up by the waist, and spun her round until she collapsed against him in a fit of giggles.

He spun her to a standstill, gently depositing her on her feet, but the giggles didn't stop. Instead, they went worse and worse, until she was roaring with unnatural laughter, tears pouring from her eyes. She began to look frightened, and gasped out, "Al… Alist… help-"

"Oh Maker, Anders said this might happen." He grasped her hands, and bent so his face was level with hers. "Look at me, Maddy, it's fine. It's perfectly normal, just keep looking at me, and focus on slowing your breathing." He continued to gabble encouragement, while she struggled to regain control. Soon she was no longer laughing but still gasping for breath. "Don't fight it Maddy, just breathe nice and slow." Eventually he was able to lead her to the sofa, where she sat, trembling with reaction, while he called for one of the servants to bring her some tea.

"Come here." He sat beside her and lifted his arm, offering her a shoulder to curl against. She did so, adding crumples to a wedding dress which was already somewhat dampened by her tears.

"What happened to me?" Her voice was small and vulnerable.

He sighed, smoothing her hair. "Maddy, you were brutally attacked last night. Anders said you might fall apart later. I'm actually amazed you've stayed strong for as long as you have. It's all over now."

"Oh," she said in the same small voice, adding mournfully, "I spoilt your surprise."

"What? No! Not at all, it's… well… it's the best present I ever had." He gazed ahead of him, remembering, still smoothing her hair. "I wanted something like this sooo badly, when I was a boy. But, there wasn't really anyone who… I didn't have a family, you see."

She raised her head, looking indignant. "I thought Arl Eamon - he calls you '_my boy'_ and talks to you in _such_ a way - I thought he raised you."

"He took me in, but I wasn't brought up with the family. I lived in the stables, and they sent me to the Chantry when I was still a boy."

The strength had returned to her voice, and her tone was somewhat ominous. "He sent a child of royal blood to live in the _stables_? And then gave you to the Chantry?" She struggled up from under his arm and looked directly at him. "And you keep him here, letting him behave like... like _votre père_?

"Well, he was good to me. I was a commoner, not a royal."

She was quiet for a moment, staring at him. "No Alistair, he wasn't. And no, you weren't. Is that what they told you? The truth is, a royal bastard is usually raised as a noble, fostered with a noble family who are honoured to have him. That way he grows up knowing how to behave in his world, and his royal father may settle a title and lands on him when he comes of age, secure in the knowledge that he will be an asset, not a liability, to _la famille_. That is the way things are done, and not just in Orlais."

Her words struck home, so he reached for a joke. "You know that you become more Orlesian when you are annoyed, right? If you are ever truly angry with me, I won't understand a single word you say."

She tucked her head back down on his shoulder, but her voice was still level. "If I become so very angry, then it will always be for you _mon mari_, not at you, that I promise."

_-oOo-_


	14. Chapter 14

_-oOo-_

It was not the first time Alistair had been astonished to discover just how heroic he was. And, unfortunately, it was unlikely to be the last either. He didn't dare catch Leliana's eye at all, and Oghren's hysterical guffaws, floating up from the far end of one of the tables on the main floor, weren't helping his composure either.

The minstrel finished his apocryphal version of the saving of Redcliffe, and launched into the chorus. Oh Maker, that meant he intended to mangle the history of the rest of the Blight as well. These kinds of performance were always excruciating, but the presence of representatives from the Circle, the Dalish and Orzammar were going to make this one a special agony.

Through a fog of burning embarrassment, he realised that his bride was tapping her fingers on the table in front of her - and not in time with the music either. This was tapping of the seriously irritated kind. Her frowning gaze moved from his flaming face, to Leliana's pained expression, to the minstrel, and back to him. As the minstrel began to sing of how their fearless monarch, and the mighty Hero, fought their way both into and back out of the Fade (alone apparently), in order to save the pathetically grateful mages of the Circle Tower, she appeared to come to a decision, and the tapping stopped.

His Queen clapped her hands together sharply twice, and when the astounded minstrel faltered to a halt, she imperiously waved him away, gesturing to the minstrels in the gallery to play instead. There was a small pause, in which the entire room held its collective breath, before they did as they were instructed. The minstrel stood uncertain for a moment, then bowed and withdrew, his face now the colour Alistair's had been.

Maddy looked up and down the High Table, where everyone except her brother was gazing at her in open-mouthed shock, and raised her eyebrows enquiringly. "Is something wrong?"

While Alistair was still trying to frame an answer, Philippe turned to his sister with a crooked smile. "It would appear that here in Ferelden, _ma soeur_, one does not try to salvage the musicality and sanity of one's guests by dismissing a performer, however appalling they may be."

"No, we do not," was Eamon's gruff, disapproving interjection.

Maddy's eyes flew to Alistair's and found the confirmation there. "Really? No, surely not. Why would you permit a performer to embarrass you so in your own Court? What incentive is there for him to improve if he is allowed to sing such drivel?"

Alistair had to confess these were both excellent questions, but attempted a feeble defence. "Well, the thing is, it's always been like this. I'm not meant to be embarrassed by it. If he insulted me in my Court, then all well and good, I could have him flung out, but because he's flattering me I'm meant to like it."

Maddy put her finger unerringly on the fault in this argument. "But you _don't_ like it, and it's_ your_ Court."

Again Eamon stuck his oar in. "It's not our way to change things willy-nilly."

The Arl's neighbour, the new Teryna of Gwaren, Bryland's wife Annis, blond and elegant, shook her head. "Come now, Arl Eamon, this is surely more a matter of fashion than of tradition. I think our new Queen has the right idea." She smiled warmly at Maddy. "Following her example provides an excellent excuse to save myself from such excruciating performances in the future."

The mulish set of Maddy's mouth softened slightly at this support; addressing Eamon, she maintained stubbornly, "I do not wish to see my husband discomfited by a _ménestrel_ in our own home, and most certainly not at our Wedding Feast."

Alistair had seen that expression on her face before, after she slapped the mercenary in Val Royeaux. _She protects me so fiercely_, he thought, and wondered what he could possibly have done to deserve it. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "It shall be as you wish, my Queen," he averred, and was rewarded with a blindingly brilliant smile that illuminated her whole face.

_-oOo-_

A flock of married Court ladies surrounded Maddy, intent on fulfilling the tradition of ushering her to bed to await her husband. Alistair was extremely uneasy about letting Maddy out of his sight right now, even with the likely culprits in custody, but this ritual was unavoidable.

He touched Leliana's hand as she passed, and she dipped her head to hear his murmured instructions. "Don't take her in unless the guards are certain the suite is secure. Use my chamber rather than hers, and ensure the servants in there are ones that are known to you. All the guards outside should be my own." She nodded. He was aware she knew all this already, it had been discussed earlier, but he needed _some_ outlet for his concern.

After they left, Philippe cast a sympathetic glance at Alistair's anxious face and urged him out of his seat. "Fretting does not become you, _mon frère_. I see a delightfully rowdy-looking crowd over at the back that appears to be dicing. Come, we shall grace their game with our presence until you are permitted to leave."

_I have a brother_, Alistair thought, as he meekly followed where Philippe led. _Wow_, _imagine that._

_-oOo-_

Bawdy jokes behind demure hands inspired hushed giggles, kind whispers attempted to overcome supposed bridal nerves. Maddy just wanted them all to go away. They had led her into the King's Bedchamber, while Alistair's valet discreetly withdrew. A forest of soft hands had removed her clothes, and inserted her into some kind of silk and lace confection, that Leliana had coaxed her into buying in Val Royeaux. They had removed her crown, which was a relief, and combed out her hair. Leliana narrowly prevented some enthusiast from pulling a brush through it, an act guaranteed to turn her hair into a static nightmare floating around her head.

They led her to bed and tenderly guided her into it, smoothing the sheets around her. It was all so ridiculous; did they think she couldn't find her own way here? This whole ritual seemed designed to make her rebellious; by the time they left, she felt like a virgin sacrifice staked out on an altar. Five minutes after that, she was bored as well as mutinous, fidgeting restlessly with the sheet. She turned on her side and saw Claudia, curled up on the chair across from the bed, regarding her with alert, hopeful, yellow eyes. Maddy grinned at her cat and flung back the covers…

_-oOo-_

Bawdy jokes in ringing tones inspired roars of laughter, raucous comments concerning his prowess were designed to undermine any confidence the groom may have previously possessed. Alistair firmly shut the door of his private suite and leant against it, glad to be free of his traditional escort. He was deeply, _deeply_ thankful he was not coming to this night a virgin. The thought of enduring _that,_ and then having to perform for the first time… He shuddered and offered up thanks to Andraste for sparing him such an ordeal.

He spied the table full of figurines and wandered across the dimly lit room to pick one up, grinning like a fool. After Maddy had recovered from her upset, they had split the army in two and had a battle, tooting imaginary horns, and rallying their men with ridiculous speeches. Maddy had mourned the fact that she had not thought to get a second, Orlesian, army and they had resolved to write to the toymaker, commissioning one.

The half-hour of childishness had made the rest of the ceremonial day seem much more bearable, and had made him realise just how much he'd been forced to grow up in the last year. The Blight had changed and hardened him in many ways, a trial by fire for sure, but a year running a country had changed him more. It had sobered him immensely; forcing him to push aside the remnants of his boyhood. This unexpected gift had reminded him that the boy was still there, that he didn't have to spend every minute of the day being a grownup, in order to be a King.

And as for Maddy herself, he thought, as he turned from the table and made his way towards the bedchamber door, she was so warm and protective, it made him feel safe. He couldn't remember having felt safe since Duncan's comforting presence had been removed. He wondered if she had been getting anxious about his delayed arrival, and cursed himself for getting distracted. He might not be a virgin, but _she_ still was, despite their bit of sex play in Orlais. What was he thinking of, leaving her to lie there waiting for him, apprehensive and fearful? He turned the door handle, taking a step into the room… and something white and lightweight bounced off his groin, madly pursued by a bundle of ginger fur.

"Oops," said Maddy, and broke into a peal of laughter.

He stood frozen in the doorway for a second, shocked into immobility by the unexpectedness of the scene. The room was softly lit with lamps, the bed slightly dishevelled. The cat triumphantly caught what appeared to be a tightly screwed-up ball of parchment, and leapt lightly up onto the bed to drop it in front of Maddy, before taking up a hunter's crouch, eyes wide and expectant. Maddy herself was knelt up on the bed, a heavy dressing gown open over an incongruously foamy lace nightgown, brown hair loose around her shoulders, grinning mischievously at him. Anything further from an anxious, virgin bride would be harder to imagine.

A surge of unexpectedly fierce joy fired up in him, and his mouth curved in response to this irrepressible woman-child he had wed. He shut the door and leant against it, arms folded, smiling broadly. "So, is that what I can expect from marriage? Having things thrown at me?"

Her grin widened, and she gave an emphatic nod. "Definitely." Again the ball of paper sailed towards him, closely followed by her cat. He picked the ball out of the air, which inspired a disappointed _meep_ from Claudia, followed by a satisfied _mew_ when he threw it across the room and she dashed after it. The little cat deftly wrangled it to the ground with her paws and carried it back to him in her mouth, dropping it at his feet with a hopeful air.

He cocked an amused eyebrow at Maddy. "The _cat_ plays _fetch_?" He scooped up the ball of paper and carried it with him to the bed, where he stood looking down at her. Claudia followed him, never taking her eyes off the paper, and jumped up on the bed.

Maddy took the paper off him and threw it again; there was a thud as four paws hit the floor running. "She does indeed," she said, and bounced up on the bed, so that she was standing over him. "Oh, you look totally different from up here." She gazed at the top of his head solemnly, and gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "Did you know you have a bald spot?"

He gave a crack of laughter and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her to the floor. "Oh, woe is you, to have married such a decrepit, wrinkly-"

"Bald."

"-bald," he nodded mournfully, "old man."

"It's true," she sighed, and shook her head sadly, "but what else could I do? I was so desperate for a crown, you see."

Alistair's hands moved up her back and pulled her closer. "And now you're stuck with me," he murmured in her ear, and felt her shiver in response. She tilted her head up, offering her mouth and he took it, enjoying the soft sweetness. He felt her hands tugging at the fastenings of his silk doublet, and then slipping beneath it to roam over his ribs and back; they felt warm through the fine lawn shirt. He responded by deepening the kiss, finding her willing, and eager, to open to him. He slid his hands inside the heavy dressing gown; discovering the back of her silk nightgown to be nothing more than a slippery second skin over her warmth and softness. He hummed deep in his throat, feeling it vibrate against her mouth, and reluctantly pulled away. "I have to take these boots off," he said, his voice hitting an unexpectedly low register, and she made a small, disappointed sound.

_-oOo-_

He walked over to his clothes chest. Maddy sat on the edge of the bed to watch him in the soft lamplight, as he removed boots, socks, and the doublet she had abused. The light picked up copper glints in his blonde hair, and lent his skin an extra glow. She wanted to see more of it. _This is my husband_, _I don't have to hold back_. "The shirt too," she demanded boldly, feeling a shy blush rise. He looked up in surprise, and then smirked wickedly at her. Alistair gripped the hem of his shirt and peeled it up slowly, exposing golden skin over taut muscles, silver scars making her fingers twitch to trace them. He pulled the shirt over his head, and flung it aside. He stood now only in linen trousers, watching as her eyes ran over him.

_My turn_, she thought, and stood up from the bed to face him, across the room. Maddy slipped the dressing gown off her shoulders and slowly allowed it to fall, exposing the clingy silk and foaming lace, tied up the front with a series of ribbons. She saw his fingers tremble also as his gaze fell to those ribbons, and mentally thanked Leliana for her wise choice. She felt a surge of power over him, triumphantly feminine, and on impulse she pointed imperiously. "Trousers." Alistair's eyebrows rose, and this time it was he who blushed faintly, pinned under her gaze. His lips curled up a touch, and he dipped into a tiny bow. He obediently unfastened them and, never taking his eyes from her, let them drop to the floor and stepped out of the puddle of linen.

She loved how exposed, and vulnerable, and downright _gorgeous_ he looked, standing there wearing only a scrap of cloth, and when he stepped towards her, she shook her head. "Stay there," she commanded, and saw him harden more under the cloth, as he submitted to her will. She responded with a surge of heat, all the stronger because of the distance between them, and reached to the top ribbon of her nightdress with a hand that shook slightly. She gripped the scrap of silk delicately with her thumb and one finger, and pulled very slowly, feeling the bow begin to unravel. He was watching her voraciously; the heat of his gaze made her feel weak, but she maintained her poise. This was what she wanted, what she needed to be; the goddess, not the virgin sacrifice. The ribbons slithered apart, exposing the swell of her breasts and he caught his breath, hazel eyes molten with desire.

Once again, she pointed. "Take them off." He blushed, his expression indescribably gorgeous; a mixture of embarrassment, wonder, and intense, burning need. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband, and obeyed. He stood before her, gloriously naked, vulnerable and desirable, and she trembled with longing.

Maddy ached for his touch, but held his hot gaze, reaching for the next ribbon. She paused, with the strip of silk in her fingers and looked at him boldly, secretly amazed at her own wantonness, but spurred on by his reactions. "Ask me."

Alistair looked shocked, embarrassed, but his physical reaction told a different story. "…what…?"

"Ask."

He stared at her, and she gazed back, taunting him, ribbon held between finger and thumb, awaiting his response. She thought for a moment she had pushed him too far, and then he cleared his throat, adorably self-conscious. "Please." His voice was a throaty growl that sent thrills through her, and weakened her knees. She offered him an approving smile, and pulled the ribbon, exposing more breast and pale belly before the weight of the lace pulled the garment off her, dragging it down over her hips, slithering to a heap at her feet. Before she could make any further demands of him, he crossed the room swiftly, crushing her to him with so much desire, desire_ she_ had created; it was hers, all hers…

_-oOo-_

Maker, he ached for her, he'd never felt such tension, such burning need. He plundered her mouth, his hands roaming over her with frantic yearning, pent up during those long moments when he'd been held at bay. He couldn't be gentle with her, not now; she'd inflamed him too far. She'd done this to him, no blushing bride, no virgin girl, but a desirable, wanton woman who had played with fire and, _Maker I hope she doesn't get burnt_.

She responded savagely, fearlessly, fingers gripping his hair, whispering against his mouth, "Next time I'll make you beg." Only the shy flush in her face betraying her youth and innocence, as a whimper escaped him in response. Immediately her hand was on him, arousing him even further, and he threw his head back with a gasp, desperately holding on to the tattered edges of his control. He pressed her back onto the bed, sliding her legs apart and bending his head to her breast, trying to wait just a little longer.

_-oOo-_

Maddy gloried in his response, in his frantic reaction to her tease, her own fire burning hot from it. He was above her, magnificently male, so much smooth golden skin and muscle for her to stroke and knead. His tongue was on her nipple, scraping and flicking; she reared up, driven by her aching desire, pursuing the hard flesh he was withholding. He felt her nudge him pleadingly. She could feel the boiling desire in him, but still he held back while she whimpered, hips arched towards him. Finally he raised his head, eyes smouldering, and smiled at her with devastating sweetness. "Ask," he murmured quietly, and the heat blazed higher between them.

She wouldn't withhold what he had freely given; with hips still pushing against him, feeling him poised against her, she entreated him, pleaded, "Alistair, please, I want you." His breath caught in his throat, she felt him press forward, pushing carefully past the tight band of muscle, sliding in easily and painlessly, thanks to Leliana's wise suggestion.

He felt fantastic, moving smoothly against sensitive nerves and she instinctively drove upwards for more, forcing a loud groan from him. As he began to thrust slowly, she moaned in response, gripping his shoulders tightly, urging him on; sensation was blossoming within her, building swiftly. She wanted more of him, deeper, faster and forced the pace with rising hips. She chased her need, while he gripped his lip between his teeth; his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of concentration. When her heat bloomed, she clung to him helplessly, crying out his name, muscles in spasm around his flesh, sweeping him along with her. He plunged deep and held there, panting and convulsing in his release, his forehead against her shoulder, until they both shuddered to a standstill.

_-oOo-_

Alistair panted against Maddy's shoulder, his muscles weak as water, trembling with the effort of keeping his weight off her. "Sweet Andraste, that was…"_ her first time_, he reminded himself, and turned on one elbow to look at her anxiously. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" He withdrew carefully, and reached for the cloths strategically placed by the bedside, handing her one.

She shook her head, accepting the cloth with a small, secretive, entirely female smile. "No."

They cleaned themselves, and flopped back on the bed together, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He stroked her hair, wracked by sudden guilt. "Maddy, I'm so sorry, I wanted to be gentle, but what you did to me…" He stopped, not actually even sure _what_ she'd done to him, or how, just knowing what a catastrophic effect it had on his self-control.

She raised her head, and stared at him in surprise. She propped herself up one hand and raised the other to his face, cupping the curve of his jaw. "Alistair, you don't have anything at all to be sorry for; it was wonderful." There was no possible doubt about her sincerity. He pulled her towards him, and kissed her slowly, and tenderly. There was no need to rush; they had the whole night ahead of them.

_-oOo-_


	15. Chapter 15

_-oOo-_

Leliana arose early, enthused by the prospect of sinking her teeth into a mammoth task. Sipping her breakfast _chocolat - _a luxury even here in the palace; she'd brought several large packets back from Orlais - she thought about what lay both behind, and ahead.

If Alistair had offered Leliana this post a year ago, she probably would have refused. At the time, chasing darkspawn had seemed a worthy task, and Marjolaine's death had left too raw a wound for her to stomach bardic work. But their trip to Orlais had re-ignited her enthusiasm; particularly for the more intricate, delicate, political work that only Court bards get to dabble in. The tasks she had been hired for, back when she worked with Marjolaine, had a vicious simplicity that had suited her younger self. But now, she smiled to think it, now she was more grown up, and her tastes had matured accordingly.

There was an enormous amount of work to be done. The Crown had not had a proper intelligence service since Anora's network had broken down. Alistair hadn't dared to trust those of her agents known to him, and the majority had never been discovered. Her execution had put paid to any possibility of them causing trouble, and they had been allowed to dissipate naturally, like the morning mist.

This meant that Leliana had the advantage of a free hand, and the disadvantage of starting from scratch. It was going to take a lot of time, and effort, to put something useful in place. She would have to take the time to discover which of the servants here in the palace reported to which nobles, for a start. Not to expel them, of course, but merely to ensure who was being informed of what, and by whom. She would need to find some people of her own, willing to take work as servants, and plant them in the various households. That would involve trips to all the alienages to find some reliable agents. She required field agents at work here in Ferelden, gathering information in the various towns, and also similar agents in a number of countries.

She nibbled a sweet biscuit thoughtfully. It was such a shame that Alistair had not given her some inkling of this appointment before she left Orlais. Setting things up there would be easier than anywhere else; she had so many contacts available, the framework could have been put in place already. Another trip to Orlais would have to happen before winter set in, or it would be delayed until spring. The idea that the Empress may be receiving intelligence from Ferelden, when none was being received in return, seemed suddenly unendurable.

Before any of that could be dealt with though, a very unpleasant task lay ahead, one she was _really_ not looking forward to. The Dragon's Peak prisoners must be interrogated, to ascertain exactly what instigated the attack on the Queen, and who was involved. For the interrogation of the assassin, and the Bann's wife, Lady Harla, she could lead the questioning herself. Leliana's stomach twisted with distaste at the idea, but it was necessary. For Sighard and Oswyn, she needed to keep her distance. If they proved innocent, and if Alistair decided to spare them, she did not want them, or anyone, knowing what her new role was, for as long as possible.

She set down her cup, and reluctantly turned to the door. It was best to get an ugly task out of the way as quickly as possible.

_-oOo-_

Although Alistair and Maddy were both usually early risers - he because years in the monastery had set habits that lasted a lifetime, she because, like most gardeners, she preferred to begin in the cool morning rather than the heat of the day – today they slept late, worn out by their long wedding day. Maddy woke mid-morning, startled for a moment to find she shared a bed with a naked man, before waking up enough to remember who, and why. Alistair was flat on his stomach with his arms tucked under the pillow. She turned to face him, admiring the smooth, slightly freckled, skin of her sleeping husband's back, his tender neck below the cropped hair.

Now that they were committed to each other, now the ceremonial horrors of a royal wedding were behind them, Maddy had no illusions about her feelings for this man. She had been intrigued by him from that first moment, when he hauled her to her feet and dusted her down; when he had utterly failed to be shocked or disgusted at her behaviour. The following day, having pinned the rosebud to his collar, she had looked up and seen his eyes on her, and had felt like a woman for the first time. But, only when she saw him waiting for her on the Denerim dockside had she realised she was in love with him, that she had been from the start, perhaps.

They had talked late into the previous night, in between their bouts of lovemaking. A picture of each other's lives had been formed, and Maddy's blood had boiled to hear of how miserable Alistair had been made. The idea that _fighting the_ _Blight_ could have been the happiest two years of his life really gave her some perspective on how awful the rest must have been. As did the fact that he perceived Arl Eamon to have been one of the most positive influences in his life.

And as for Lady Isolde… the woman had been sugar sweet on the occasions when they spoke these last two days, playing up their shared Orlesian heritage, making overtures of friendship. Maddy knew _that _type from her homeland, and hadn't been impressed then, either. Now she knew about Isolde's treatment of Alistair, her hands itched to slap the selfish, arrogant, noblewoman. As that happiness was not currently available, she settled for spending a pleasant moment imagining Isolde's face, when the woman had found out that the boy she'd mistreated was going to be King.

It was astonishing that Alistair had turned out so well. There was sweetness in his nature that nothing could tarnish, plus kindness and compassion that were likely due to his experiences, rather than in spite of them. But the vulnerability, the lack of confidence; those had been inflicted upon him, and were undeserved. She determined to do anything she could to help him overcome them.

Alistair stirred at her side, interrupting her musings. She had deliberately kept her hands to herself since she woke – leaving him to sleep in peace - but now, she ran her hand over the back of his head, and down the soft skin of his neck and back. He hummed drowsily and turned on his side towards her, hazel eyes still sleepy, but smiling. "Good morning." He traced a finger down her cheek. "I could get used to waking up like this."

She kissed him on the nose, returning his smile. "You'd better; I seem to remember you promising me that my room was just one big wardrobe…" Maddy snuggled up against him, cheek to his chest, "…hence, I'm taking up residence." He was so warm and smooth; her hand began to roam over his skin without conscious volition. She'd seen some interesting things in the book Leliana gave her; now seemed like a really good time to try one of them.

Alistair chuckled, folding his arms around her. "Provided you don't actually stick an Orlesian flag in the bed, I think I can live with that." She slipped out of his arms, kissing down his taut stomach. "What are you…? Oh…...oh wow…"

_-oOo-_

Knight Commander Cullen strode briskly out of the room he had been assigned for his visit to Denerim. He was fully packed and ready to return to the Tower. Eager to do so, in fact, his plans made long ago, his duty clear. Being forced to delay for something as trivial as a Royal wedding was infuriating.

But first, he must take his leave of the Grand Cleric: the woman sent to do the work of Holy Andraste, sent to enable _him_ to do Her work. May the Maker bless and keep her, every day.

Her sharp voice responded to his knock. He entered, bowing respectfully, arms crossed. She rose from her desk, giving him a nod in return. "Ah, you are leaving soon, Knight Commander?"

"Yes your Eminence, immediately."

"Good, we have a great deal to do. You know your orders. I want the Tower running efficiently with minimum personnel; we need our Templars in the field. I have as many as possible out there now, all of those who are strongest in their purpose." She bristled with resolve; holy fire burning hot in her eyes. "The word of Andraste defines our sacred duty. Our brethren have been weak, and the taint, the sickness, spreads further each day. We must ensure a final solution to this abomination; when Ferelden is cleansed, our brethren across Thedas will see where their duty lies, and follow our example."

Cullen bowed again, her fire reflected in his eyes. "I agree entirely, Your Eminence, and may Andraste guide our steps."

_-oOo-_

Lightning crackled in the ends of Anders' fingers as he strode through Fort Drakon, seeking the perpetrator of this… this _atrocity_. Guards backed away fearfully, unnerved as much by the spitting, hissing cat on his shoulder as by the mage himself. When he had received the summons, asking him to assist with the healing of a prisoner, he had assumed illness, or accident. Not this, never this. The woman was fine, but the man… and, of _all_ the people to have ordered it… If this was the kind of _crap_ that went on in politics, he was _not_ going to stick around for it. He flung open the door of the office he had been directed to, and stormed into the room. "Leliana! What the _fuck _do you think you're…? Oh… oh, _bugger_." The bard was huddled on the floor in the corner of the room, tears pouring down her face, arms wrapped round her body, a puddle of complete misery. Anders knelt down on the floor in front of her, his anger slipping away. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Why did you order them to… do that to him?"

She snuffled, looking at the floor, not meeting his eyes. "I had to. He works for a bard, he's trained to resist." She looked up at him, blue eyes swimming still. "Someone hired a bard to kill Maddy. What _else_ could I do? We _had _to get the information." She dropped her head into her hands, and cried like her heart would break.

Pounce, fur smooth and settled again, jumped from his shoulder and rubbed against her leg. Anders sighed and shuffled forwards. "Come here," he wrapped his arms around her, but she was rigid, too ashamed, to accept the comfort.

Her voice was muffled, her head down, top of her head pressed against his breastbone. "I'm so _sorry_ I dragged you into this. I couldn't leave him in pain, once we'd got what we needed."

"Yes, well, that part at least I agree with." He patted her back, unsure how he felt about all this. It was as much shock at finding the torture was on Leliana's orders, as the damage itself, which had made him furious. She was a regular visitor at Vigil's Keep, and had always seemed so gentle and kind. But he could see her point; after all, he had healed the wound in Maddy's side personally, had seen the lethal poison used. The Queen wasn't a combatant; she was an unarmed, young girl whom they had tried to murder in her bed. It had taken the combined efforts of both him and Nate to save her life. But did that really condone this kind of behaviour? "Did you get the information you needed?"

She wiped her face, pulling away from him, and nodded. "I couldn't get the buyer, I don't think he knows. That's why it got so bad; I had to push far enough to be sure. But I know now which bard it is. I'll have to get cleaned up, and then report to Alistair."

He stood up, offering his hand to help her rise. "Let's go do that then; assuming that the lovebirds have emerged from their nest."

_-oOo-_

The footman, who brought in their breakfast trays also brought the King two messages. Alistair took them reluctantly. "I thought I gave orders that all business was to go to Eamon today?"

"Yes, sire, you did. The Chamberlain deemed that you would wish to see these two. All other messages have been re-directed to His Grace, as per your instructions."

"Oh, very well then, thank you."

While Maddy poured tea for both of them, he read the notes. There was a short one from Leliana, saying she had information about the assassination attempt, and needed to see him. Bertram was correct then, he did want this note himself, and today. The other one made him grin. "Would you like to go to a party tonight, dear?" he asked.

Maddy looked up in surprise, spoon poised to stir. "Already? Haven't we suffered enough?"

"Oh, you'll like this one, I think; it'll be quite different. There's someone I want you to meet." He scribbled some instructions to give to Bertram after breakfast.

_-oOo-_

In the end, there were five of them at the meeting.

Maddy insisted on attending, shaking her head obstinately at Alistair's suggestion that he would prefer to spare her. Philippe would also wish to know what happened, she told him, and sent a footman to his room. That made four, but Alistair was mildly surprised when Anders followed Leliana into his sitting room, his cat in his arms.

As soon as they were all served with drinks, and the footman had left, Maddy went straight to Leliana and sat beside her on the sofa. She put her arm around her friend, and asked anxiously, "What's happened? What's upset you?" Alistair blinked in astonishment and took a closer look; it was true, the bard's eyes were red and puffy.

Leliana leaned into the embrace, but shook her head slightly. "It's fine, it's not important." She sat back up, blue eyes determined. "I've spent the morning at Fort Drakon." Alistair saw Anders wince slightly, and wondered what he was missing here. "From the information I've gained, it seems that Lady Harla has been the unwilling agent of an Orlesian bard for over a year. She does not know the identity of the bard, or even that it _is_ a bard, but the assassin does."

Alistair frowned, "For over a year? Since the end of the Blight? It's not possible that a plot against my wife could have existed so long."

Leliana's smile held more than a touch of melancholy. "If a bard has an opportunity to get their hooks into a noble, then they do so. And, having landed such a fish, they do not easily let them free. Lady Harla was approached by an agent, who informed her that his employer had proof of certain… activities of hers; activities that she would not wish her family to be aware of. In exchange for their silence, she agreed to take into her household two men, ostensibly guardsmen. On certain social occasions, she would be told to ensure that they were in her personal guard, and to look the other way if they vanished for part of the evening."

Philippe sat forward in his seat, and folded his hands together. "And who died on those occasions?" he asked, his usual placid calm appearing a little rigid.

"No-one. The activities were never of a level to alarm Lady Harla. Or, at least, not sufficiently so to make her bolt, or confess to her husband. The man we interrogated said it was all bread-and-butter bard business. Taking or replacing documents, leaving someone's guilty secret where it would be found, that kind of thing. But, of course, she was roped further in each time she was complicit." Leliana shrugged, her eyes shadowed. "It's a standard tactic."

"What kind of _activities_ could be so bad as to make her get involved in this?" wondered Alistair.

Leliana's lips twitched, an edge of mischief creeping into the sadness in her eyes. "Nothing _you'd_ know anything about, nor want to, I think. Suffice to say that she had _very_ specific sexual tastes that were not being met at home, and therefore she attended… parties, where they were catered for. It seems that the bard found a way to control one of the hosts, and managed to get a copy of his guest list." Curiosity oozed from every man in the room, but no-one appeared keen to be the one to ask.

Maddy had a tight grip on Leliana's hand, obviously still feeling her friend needed support. "So, she was told to come to my room that evening? Of course, it was well known that she would be able to do so, because it is tradition. Did she know they were going to try to… kill me?"

Her voice wavered slightly at the end; Leliana squeezed her hand, rubbing the back of it with her other hand. "Yes. I'm sorry Maddy, but yes, she did. She was in too deep, too scared to protest. She had been promised that this was the last job; that she would be left in peace if she did this." Leliana looked directly at Alistair, and he felt sure she could see the sudden fury burning him up. "When it went wrong, she tried to get the assassin out of the estate. She thought that, at the very least, she could save her family from knowing all her sordid secrets. She also had the faint hope that if she took full responsibility, left a confession, you might have mercy on her husband and son."

"Who ordered my sister killed?" Philippe's voice was very level, but Alistair could hear in it a mirror of his own anger. It felt good to share.

Leliana sighed and released Maddy's hand, folding her own together tightly. She seemed to be shaking slightly, and Alistair raised his eyebrows at his wife questioningly, wondering what could have upset their friend so much. Maddy shook her head slightly, her own eyes worried. So, she didn't know either. "I'm sorry Philippe, I don't know. I tried…" She folded her lips together tightly for a moment, and then continued. "I'm sure that the assassin didn't know. He was, however, able to tell me the name of his employer, the bard he worked for. He is called Francois Moreau. He was a small player back when I worked in Orlais; much bigger now, I expect, if he is taking contracts on royalty."

"I think I should see this assassin for myself, and make _damned_ sure he doesn't know who wanted my wife dead."

"An excellent plan, _mon ami;_ I think I'll join you, if I may."

There was a sudden and ominous taste of magic on Alistair's tongue. Ser Pounce-a-lot hissed and spat furiously, from his place at Anders' side.

"If you two think I'm sticking that man back together _again,_ just so that you can vent your anger on someone, you're _wrong_. You're going to have to take Leliana's word for it that he doesn't know. You hired her to do a job, and she's done it. Move on."

There was a sudden silence, while everyone worked through the implications of what Anders had just said. Realisation dawned in Maddy's eyes first, and she hugged Leliana tightly. "Oh, my poor sweet."

Alistair was more taken aback than anything else. Seeing Anders angry was a new experience, a bit like being savaged by a teddy bear. Then he realised what Maddy's response meant, and turned to Leliana accusingly. "I didn't order you to… Why..."

Leliana's head was buried in Maddy's arms; before she could respond, Anders took up the gauntlet on her behalf. "You mean; why did your Spymaster have the assassin tortured? Because it's her _job_, the one _you_ gave her. Considering you were about to go beat him half to death yourself, this _might_ not be the best time for you to start pointing the finger."

Colour flared in Alistair's cheeks, shame mixing with his fury, making him want to hit back, but the mage was right, damn him. He choked down an angry response, and before he could recover, Anders disarmed him with an apology. "I'm sorry, Alistair; this has put us all on edge. I was livid when I was called to heal him, I still am in a way, but it's not Leliana's fault."

Maddy gave her support. "No, it isn't, and I won't have her blamed. So, what do we do now?" There was slight emphasis on the 'we', reminding everyone that they were together in this, on the same side. Alistair made an effort to rein in his temper, following her lead.

Philippe still looked rather less than his usual unruffled self, but the frown on his face was now more thoughtful than angry. "If we want to find the real culprit, I can only see two ways of doing so. Either we go after the bard ourselves, or we drop this mess on Celene, and let her deal with it. After all, if the assassination had worked, it would have played unholy havoc with her alliance, so it's her business as much as ours."

Alistair's response was dry. "Of course, Celene will only care about her alliance, not her _sister, _right?"

"But, of course." Philippe appeared astonished that anyone could think otherwise.

Leliana emerged from the comfort of Maddy's arms, rumpled but somewhat recovered. "I would say that we let Celene try; in Orlais she holds all the power. If she takes this matter seriously, then she will find the instigator. If she isn't inclined to get involved, then we can take it up ourselves."

"_Bon_, then I will return to Orlais on the next available ship, with copies of the confessions you have extracted, and go to see Celene." Philippe smiled ruefully. "Only my great love for you impels me to this terrifying course, _ma soeur_."

Maddy looked stricken. "You are returning to Orlais already? I thought you'd stay for a while."

"I will return once this task is done. I find the air of Ferelden much to my liking, and will visit with you for a while, if I may? The estate manager can run things in my absence."

Alistair responded instantly and warmly. "You're family now, Philippe. Come whenever you want, and stay as long as you wish." To be able to say that to someone, to anyone, felt absolutely fantastic.

_-oOo-_


	16. Chapter 16

_-oOo-_

Anyone observing the Denerim alienage in the latter part of that afternoon may have seen some rather unusual activity. Firstly, a messenger wearing the King's livery arrived, bearing a letter for the Hahren. Once the messenger left, a bustle of activity began. The worst of the litter was swept up, the platform used for ceremonies and dancing was brushed and swabbed clean, and a runner went to every house to inform them of something that caused considerable excitement.

Sometime later several wagons pulled up, and disgorged a number of people under the supervision of a slight, balding man with a permanently harassed expression, dressed in the fine clothes of a very superior servant. They unloaded from the wagons vast quantities of interesting things; including trestle tables, benches, lanterns and enormous amounts of food and drink. Many willing hands assisted them in unloading the wagons and setting everything up, all under the stern eye of the Hahren, ensuring that none of his people were tempted to indulge in petty pilferage. Finally a group of hired minstrels arrived, looking a little nervous in these surroundings.

As the sun set, a unit of the King's guards took up positions at the alienage entrances, each group supported by a couple of elves. The guards informed anyone who approached that the alienage was closed to non-residents this evening. The elves ensured that those who claimed residency were, indeed, known to them. This restriction did not seem to apply to an eclectic, and slightly rowdy, group of human men and women, who were ushered in without comment.

_-oOo-_

"Your Majesties, it's a pleasure to have you here with us. Thank you for your enormous generosity; we weren't expecting it."

"Thank you for inviting us, Valendrian. And as for the stuff…" Alistair looked around at the transformed square of the alienage, made festive with strings of lights, groaning tables of food, and merry music. Bertram had outdone himself. "…it's nothing really. How could I do any less, when you held this celebration in our honour?" He grinned mischievously at the venerable elf. "I also brought some gatecrashers; I hope you don't mind. May I present my brother-in-law, Prince Philippe de Ghislain, and two of my friends and advisors, Leliana and Anders?"

Philippe offered Valendrian a court bow that made the eyebrows of several elves in the vicinity rise in surprise. Alistair smothered a grin. When he'd told his little group of reprobates where they were going this evening, Philippe had, for the first time, gone all Orlesian on him; expressing surprise that they were to fraternise with 'a parcel of servants'. Alistair had swallowed his annoyance, reminding himself that Philippe hadn't lived as he had. He had proceeded to give his new brother an unvarnished account of his experiences in the alienage during the Blight, his intention to find a multi-talented maid for Maddy, and his plans to improve life for the elves in Ferelden. Apparently, at least _some_ of this had made an impression.

Leliana offered Valendrian a sweet smile, and her hand. Anders shook the elder's hand firmly, in the manner of someone greeting an old acquaintance. "Valendrian and I have met before, when I came with the Commander looking for potential wardens."

The Hahren greeted them all warmly. "You are all very welcome, I'm sure." The slightly apprehensive look he cast at some of his people suggested, however, that he wasn't quite as sure as one might hope.

Alistair knew it was a risk coming here like this; it would have been far easier to invite Kallian Tabris up to the palace to meet Maddy. But if he wanted better relations between elves and humans, then it had to begin with him, and those who worked closely with him. It was the only way the elves were going to start seeing humans as flesh and blood people, and vice versa. Spying a head of flaming hair in a group of other elves, he grabbed his wife's hand. "Come on Maddy, there's someone I want you to meet."

_-oOo-_

"So, we're supposed to play nice with the shems, because the King wants to slum it? I don't buy it, Shianni." There were murmurs of support from some of the other people in the group.

Sometimes she just wanted to bang their heads together, but she could, sort of, see their point. They hadn't met the King, they didn't realise that when he looked at you, he genuinely didn't seem to see an elf. Hopefully, that would have penetrated some of their thick skulls by the end of tonight. "Andraste's ass, you're drinking his wine, and eating his food, aren't you? If any of the humans behave like shems tonight, I'll hold them down while you kick them. If they _don't_ and you're rude to them, I'll hold _you_ down while _they_ kick _you_." There was a burst of laughter from the group, and just in time it seemed. The King and Queen were on their way over.

"Shianni, it's good to see you. This is my wife, Maddy." _Maddy, he says, like they live down the street._

"Your Majesties." Shianni dropped an awkward curtsey, gritting her teeth against a snigger from behind her. Someone was going to get punched before tonight was over.

The King grabbed her arm, stopping her. "No, please don't. We aren't at court now. Just for tonight, can I be Alistair again? Please?" Yes, he had been just Alistair, hadn't he? Back when he and the Hero had barged into the alienage, and started helpfully slaughtering Tevinters. It was hard to remember that, sometimes.

The Queen wrinkled a freckled nose and laughed up at him. "You think _you_ have problems, at least people only call you Sire. I found out today that I have to be called Ma'am. It makes me feel like an old lady. I might have refused you if I'd known." She offered her hand to Shianni, who took it bemusedly. "Hello Shianni, a pleasure to meet you. Do call me Maddy. One of the things I love most about Ferelden is the more relaxed manners."

The atmosphere around them thawed significantly. Glasses of wine were passed to them, and a toast made to their marriage. Perhaps this was going to work, after all.

_-oOo-_

The Wardens were approaching their first night's camp when it happened.

The Commander had rousted them out of bed at an unearthly hour, considering they were all at a wedding banquet last night. There had been some good-humoured complaints against Anders, no doubt still cosy warm in bed up at the palace, while they held Oghren upside down, and dunked him in a water barrel until he stopped swearing in a general way, and swore he was awake instead. Then they had set off back to Vigil's Keep.

Nathaniel couldn't say he was sorry to see the back of Denerim. King Alistair had treated him like a brother Warden, which he was grateful for, but plenty of nobles had been less than happy to see a Howe at Court. They were men and women he'd grown up with, whose estates he'd been welcome at when he was younger. His bitterness was all aimed at his father nowadays, and really, if he was honest with himself, he was only angry for the destruction of the ancient Howe reputation, not for his own change of circumstance. He much preferred being a Warden to being a noble. This was easy to say when at the Keep, but harder to remember at Court. It would be good to get home.

He squinted at the road ahead, trying to see clearly with the setting sun on his left quarter, half-blinding him. There were travellers there, bulky shapes - armoured no doubt - and other, smaller ones: dwarves or children. "There are people ahead, Commander; four, or more."

The Commander shaded her eyes with a gauntleted hand and nodded. "Templars, aren't they? No-one else wears armour that shape."

Oghren grunted. "Good job we left sparkle fingers to play nursemaid to the pike twirler then."

The Commander's eyebrows twitched together, but she made no comment. Nathaniel had been present at previous run-ins between her and Oghren, and sometimes wondered why she had accepted him into the Order, when she hated his manner so much. Her stiff Orlesian formality remained intact after nine months in Ferelden, amongst what must be the strangest group of Wardens in Thedas. They respected her ability, but she hadn't made any friends.

Except in _one_ area of the Keep, that is, and therefore, upon seeing more clearly the group approaching them, Nathaniel surreptitiously checked his bowstring. There was a real possibility for trouble here. There were three fully armoured Templars marching towards them, and trying their best to keep up were two children, a boy and a girl. This was not a particularly unusual sight; Templars escorted children with magical ability to the Circle all the time, it was their duty to do so. It was certainly _not _usual for each of the children to have their hands bound together, with a Templar holding the end of the rope like a leash.

"Thundering stone," cursed Oghren, reaching for his axe.

"Hold," snapped the Commander, and hailed the Templars with her usual chilly civility. "Good evening, Sieurs, I am Warden Commander Leonie. May I ask where you are going?"

The Templars offered her a formal bow, and removed their helmets. Two were young and dark, one older and blonde. "Maker's blessings upon you, Warden Commander," the blonde Templar greeted her. "I am Ser Fandle, and these are Sers Kerys and Orden. We are taking these apostates to the Circle Tower for justice."

The Commander's eyebrows rose, together with the tension among the Wardens. "Apostates? A slip of the tongue surely; no doubt you meant to say apprentices?"

Ser Fandle appeared unmoved. "They have magic, and they were not under Templar supervision. That is the very definition of an apostate. It will be up to the Knight Commander to decide the rest."

Nathaniel blurted out, "The Knight Commander? Not the First Enchanter?"

At his surprised interjection, Ser Fandle's cold blue eyes turned to him, and it appeared he picked his words quite carefully. "If the First Enchanter has an opinion then it will, as always, be given the utmost consideration."

During this exchange, Commander Leonie had crouched down to eye level with the children, who looked at her with terrified eyes. She beckoned forward the boy, the older of the two. "Come here, _mon enfant_." She fumbled in a pouch. "See? I have a _bonbon_ for you." Her voice was soft and gentle. The Commander was well known at the Keep for having only one soft spot: children. The offspring of the castle servants swarmed around her like bees around honey. She looked behind him to the girl. "I also have one for you, _ma petite_." The children stepped hesitantly towards her.

Ser Fandle frowned, his hand tightening on the boy's leash. "Commander, I must ask you not to approach the prisoners."

Commander Leonie ignored him, handing each child a sweet. She stripped off her gauntlets, and gently turned the boy's head to look at a livid bruise on his cheek. The mark showed part of the shape of an articulated gauntlet, very similar to that which she had just removed, or to those worn by the Templars. Her face hardened, and she stood up. "Sieur… Fandle was it? Sieur, your treatment of these children is a disgrace to the Chantry. They are not apostates, nor prisoners. I am removing them from your custody. If the Chantry wishes to send someone to collect them, then they should send someone who possesses a spark of humanity. I will not hand them over, otherwise."

Ser Fandle stood his ground. "Commander, the Wardens have no jurisdiction in this matter. This is Chantry business."

The Commander slowly put her gauntlets back on. Until this task was complete, she ignored the Templars completely. Once she was ready, she looked up at them, black eyes hard and cold as stone. "You misunderstand me Sieur, I am not doing this as a Warden. I am doing this as a person, one who wishes to continue to hold her head high. Leaving these children with a _bête_ such as you would make this task impossible."

Oghren growled ferociously. "Aye, I'm behind you on that Commander. Bring it on, you freaks."

Nathaniel readied his bow; and the two other Wardens, recent recruits moving from the Denerim compound to the Keep for the first time, shot nervous glances at their Commander, and also took up combat stances.

Although the odds were heavily in favour of the Wardens, even setting aside their fearsome reputation, the Templars were unflinching. Ser Fandle's eyes glowed with a disturbing fervour. "It is our sacred duty to bring these tainted souls to the Chantry. We will not allow you or anyone else to stand in our way." All three Templars drew their swords.

Oghren bellowed a war cry that heralded a short and brutal combat.

The Templars stood little chance, the only thing hampering the Wardens being a desire to keep the children out of danger. With this in mind, Nathaniel took his shots carefully, aiming for chinks in the Templar armour that would disable those holding the leashes, and force them to release the children. It was all over very quickly, and Nathaniel took a knife and swiftly cut the white, shaking children free.

He stood up, and put the knife away. "Tainted souls? Commander, what's going on?"

Leonie was on her knees comforting the shocked children. "I don't know, perhaps they are merely rogue Templars, or maybe not. We will return to Denerim. I must discuss this with the King, and if these children have magic, then they need to be in the care of a mage until this situation is resolved."

Oghren hawked and spat. "Great. Can I be the one to tell sparkle fingers he's going to be a daddy?"

_-oOo-_

Anders was having a fantastic time. Being a Warden had felt like freedom, but this… this was better. There were definite advantages to the life of a courtier, it seemed. Drinking, feasting, and dancing with pretty girls were high on the list. He was glad Leliana had advised him to wear ordinary clothing tonight, and not robes. Dancing in robes wasn't easy, and the elven dances they were being taught were enormous fun. Plus, it meant that, for once, he was not being treated with suspicion for being a mage. Anders had always worn robes out of stubborn pride; _running_ from the Chantry was one thing, _hiding_ from them smacked of cowardice. For the first time, he saw the genuine advantage of being able to mingle freely with others.

The platform they were using as a dance floor was crowded, and the steps quite complex. He led his pretty blonde partner, Ginna, into a tricky turn. Another couple barged into them, and Ginna's heel slipped off the very edge of the platform. She teetered on the brink for a moment while he tried to catch her, and then fell. The platform was not very high; there were only a few steps leading up to it. Anders leapt down to where she was sprawled in the dirt and knelt at her side. "Sorry, I couldn't catch you in time. Are you alright?"

"Ow, I caught my leg on the edge." She laughed shakily, but he could see spots of blood on her skirt.

"Here, let me have a look." He lifted her skirt to her thigh, intent on checking her injury.

She pushed at his hands, distressed. "What are you doing, get off me."

"What? Oh, don't worry, I'm a-"

A knife appeared at his throat, and he froze as a harsh voice behind him grated, "Touch her, and I'll kill you shem."

_-oOo-_

Maddy ran her hands over the charred trunk and blackened branches of the fire-damaged tree. The sign below it said that this was the _Vhenadahl, _the Tree of the People_, _just like the Keeper had said_. _Only one side was badly wounded, the other… well, fresh and green would be an overstatement. Dusty and green might be closer to the truth. The overhanging buildings cut out too much light, and the ground was poor. A tree that was meant to be of such significance to the elves, in such poor condition; it was sad, depressing. It was a true symbol of the plight of their people, indeed, from what she had heard and seen. She couldn't understand why it had been left like this. She leant against the trunk, swamped by the _Vhenadahl's_ struggle for life and health. She slipped slowly to the ground, regardless of her dress in the dirt.

_Her roots quested down below the dust, seeking the meagre water and nutrients. She stretched high, catching the slants of light on her leaves, finding relief in the exhalation this allowed. There was enough to sustain life and growth, but not enough to heal. There is more available than soil and sun; power can be absorbed by will alone…_

_-oOo-_

Kallian knew this would happen. She bloody _knew_ it.

Shianni had coaxed her into this evening, with some tale of how the Queen had been attacked the night before her wedding. She knew better than most what _that_ was like, and in a moment of weakness had agreed to meet her. As soon as the royal party arrived she'd known it was a mistake. Three great, hulking, shem nobles, with the King the biggest of the lot. He was built like a brick shithouse, and looked like he could break a woman in half with his bare hands. She faded back into the shadows before Valendrian could spot her. What was Shianni _thinking_? She couldn't understand how her cousin could do it; smiling and bobbing a bloody curtsey of all things. So she had stayed back, remained hidden, and waited until the shems misbehaved. There was no real doubt in her mind that they would.

"You stinking nobles make me _sick_, you're all alike." The man had frozen when her dagger touched his throat, his hand still on Ginna's leg. The girl scrambled backwards away from him.

As she expected, the shem thought he could bluster his way out of it. "Look, you're making several mistakes here-"

"No! You're the one making a mistake. You think you can hide behind your King, do whatever you want to us poor, helpless elves, right?"

"What's going on here?" They had attracted some attention, despite the noise of the music, and the voice had a note of command. The shem King, then. Fine, they could string her up, but she'd be taking this one with her.

The shem under her knife unexpectedly laughed, a little nervously, and addressed the King. "Alistair, would you be so good as to explain, to whoever this scary person is behind me, exactly _why_ I would lift someone's skirt, when they've injured their leg? I'd tell her myself, but, right now, I'm not sure she'd believe me."

The shem King walked around, so that he was facing both her, and her captive. They were attracting more attention now, she could see Shianni and Valendrian hurrying over, but what was bothering her most was the look of unholy amusement on the King's face. "I'm guessing you must be Kallian? I'm pleased to meet you."

The shem shifted slightly. "Alistair, I'm glad you're enjoying this, but I'd really prefer _not_ to have to hurt her."

Him, hurt her? Good joke. "You're the one under the knife, shem."

The King laughed easily, as though everything was fine and dandy. "Kallian Tabris, may I introduce Anders, Grey Warden Mage and possibly the finest healer in Ferelden. You know, Anders; you really shouldn't start disarranging a young lady's clothes without telling her that part first."

The reply contained more than a hint of asperity. "Yes, I worked that out, thanks. I usually have robes to give people a hint."

"A Warden?" she relaxed her arm very slightly. He's a mage, a healer? Ginna had a hand over her mouth, looking a little ashamed.

"Andraste's tits cousin, what are you doing? Get off him." Shianni had rolled up, and was glowering at her. The crowd around them was growing.

The shem sighed, and slowly lifted his hand, taking pains not to threaten. "How many nobles do you know who can…" a flame appeared in his palm, "…do this?"

"Oh, _shit_."

_-oOo-_

"Maddy?" The voice was deep, familiar, but the sounds meaningless. These murmurs happened around her base all the time, they were not important.

A warm calloused hand touched her… face? She stirred, confused. "Hmm?" Making a sound brought her further back, towards the voice and the touch, and away from the soil and sun.

"Is she unwell?" A beloved voice that one, a central point in her entire life.

"Just sleeping, I think. Get a drink for her, will you, Philippe?" The warm hand brushed hair off her face. Recognition of 'hair' and 'face' made the dream fade further away, and she opened her eyes. Alistair was crouched in front of her, warm eyes concerned.

"Oh, did I fall asleep?" She stretched, reseating herself in flesh and bone. "I dreamt I was the tree."

"You surprise me." The gentle mockery made her chuckle in response, and she scrubbed her hands over her face, pushing the Fade aside. "Is this why you are now covering your face in dirt? Hoping you'll take root?" He fished out a handkerchief, and rubbed it on her cheeks. "I draw the line at giving you a licky wash. One of the Revered Mothers used to do that to me, and it always made me squirm."

"Are you alright, _ma soeur_?" She allowed Alistair to pull her to her feet, and accepted the goblet of wine Philippe was proffering. "Always you sleep under trees, or in them. If you lose her around the palace, Alistair, just go into the garden and look up. It rarely fails, _je vous assure_."

Maddy sipped her wine, normality returning, and looked behind Philippe to where Shianni stood. She appeared to have a firm grip on her companion, a dark-haired female elf, disfigured by a scar to the right of her mouth, and further marred by a deep scowl. Alistair turned to see what she was looking at, and beckoned to them. When they began to move, the girl shrugged Shianni's grip from her arm, scowling even more, but continued forward.

"Maddy, this is Kallian, whom we came to meet." She could hear the doubt in her husband's voice.

The elven woman wasn't looking at Maddy, she was staring with hard, suspicious eyes at Alistair, and then her eyes flicked to Philippe with the same expression. Alistair had told Maddy his idea to protect her, but had warned her that it might not work, that the girl had a problem with noblemen. She made a decision. "Alistair, go find Leliana for me, and take Philippe with you. Shianni, is there somewhere quiet, where we girls can have a drink together, and talk?"

_-oOo-_

"So, I asked them to try to find out what they could, to see whether our people were actually in that building, and sick. And these two Wardens, Alistair and the Hero-"

"Melissa," Leliana added helpfully, pouring more wine into their goblets.

Shianni nodded. "Melissa, that's right. These two Wardens, covered in plate mail from head to toe, look at each other, say 'Right, no problem', and cut through three Tevinter mages, _and_ their guards, like they're made of butter. And I'm stood there thinking, 'Whoa, what kind of storm have I unleashed?'"

Kallian frowned disbelievingly. "I bet they had their own reasons. No-one helps us for nothing."

Shianni shook her head, giving her an affectionate smile. "Cousin, you are too suspicious. Valendrian says the Tevinters offered them all kinds of things to spare them. He was there, in a cage, he heard it himself."

Maddy tapped her fingers on the table between them, regarding Kallian in a rather fixed manner. Leliana spoke hurriedly, having seen these warning signs before. The elf had not said one single positive thing since they walked into the room, an hour ago, and she couldn't blame Maddy for being irritated. "So, Kallian, you learnt swordplay, yes? Who taught you?"

"My mother, until the shem guards killed her. Then I had to teach myself." Her tone was hard-edged with bitterness.

"_Assez_, enough." Maddy's patience appeared to have snapped, and the words tumbled out of her. "You have had a hard life, _oui_? And it is all because you are an elf, and we are humans, you say. Many people have hard lives, but most do not have such an easy target to blame, do they? My _maman_ was assassinated because someone thought my sister Celene, the Empress of Orlais, was too fond of her_ tante_ Elizabet and their plans would run more smoothly without her. Tell me Kallian, who should I hate?"

"It… it's not the same…"

"No? I have seen how you glare at Alistair and Philippe. Alistair told me of this Kendall man, who abused you. How _dare_ you think that my husband and brother are like that… that _bâtard_!"

"The shems killed my betrothed! On my wedding day!" Kallian was on her feet now, glaring at Maddy, who sat with arms folded and her lips pressed tightly together, clearly just as angry.

"_Who_ killed him, Kallian? The entire human race? It seems so from how you treat us. A Ferelden woman attempted to assassinate me the night before _my_ wedding. Should I declare war on the whole country?"

"_It's not the same!"_

The two women glared defiantly at each other. Shianni put a tentative hand on her cousin's arm. "Kalli, it sounds awfully similar."

Kallian stared, wild-eyed, at her cousin for a moment, and then burst into tears.

Maddy's face softened immediately, and she reached out to the sobbing elf. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

_-oOo-_

"I hear that, in Orlais, you treat elves rough." In anyone else that might have sounded like an accusation. From this strapping young man, it had all the hallmarks of an invitation. Unnaturally brilliant elven eyes held a promise it was best to ignore. The flirtation had been pleasant, but should not be allowed to enter territory that one of the participants had no intention of exploring.

"Tell me, _mon ami_. Do you like it when people make such generalisations about _your_ people?" There were better answers to be sure, but this one should move the conversation away from… complications.

"Uh, what?" The perfect brow furrowed; it seemed the question placed undue strain upon the mental capacity of the recipient. And therein lay the problem.

"It is not important. Delightful though your company has been, I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I see my sister approaching." Philippe offered the confused elf a bow, and made his escape. Such offers were not uncommon, and he had learnt to deal with them, slipping away as easily as possible.

He joined his sister just as she reached her husband. "Well, _ma_ _chérie, _have you disposed of the body?"

Maddy looked bewildered. "What are you talking about, Philippe?"

"As you have emerged from the lion's den unscathed, I assume you to have slain the ferocious beast. Certainly, the roars we heard suggested as much."

"Oh," Maddy looked a little ashamed, "you heard us arguing?"

"My sweet sister, I think the entirety of this insalubrious neighbourhood heard you arguing."

"Well, it's all settled now. Kallian will be joining us tomorrow."

"What, really?" Alistair looked suitably stunned, having not lived with Maddy long enough to grow accustomed to her fast turnarounds. For a moment, Philippe regretted having to go back to Orlais on the morning tide; watching his sister twist her husband round her finger would be quite amusing. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I think it will work out perfectly well. I may need to keep a palace maid also, until Kallian gets used to the work."

"Provided she sticks a dagger into anyone who threatens to harm you, I don't care how many maids you need." That earned Alistair a hug from his tempestuous bride.

"I am pleased that it is all settled, _mes chers_. As I am leaving very early, I think I will return to the palace."

Maddy embraced her brother affectionately. "I will be there to see you off in the morning. Goodnight." She turned to Alistair. "And now, I want to dance with my husband."

He smiled down at her. "If that is your desire, how can I refuse?"

_-oOo-_


	17. Chapter 17

_-oOo-_

The two children sprawled in their bunks, with the abandon only found in the young, fast asleep. The livid bruise across the cheek of the older child was starting to change colour; the red giving way slowly to purple. Alistair left the room quietly, shutting the door behind him, and slowly returned to the Wardens' Mess, wondering what he was meant to do.

It had taken two days for the Wardens to make it back to Denerim, their pace slowed to match that of their new companions. After dinner on the day they arrived, Anders had burst in on him, asking that he come down to the Warden compound immediately. He was received there by the Warden Commander, who apologized for not attending him at the palace, and explained the circumstances.

Maker's Blood! To think; the Wardens were sticking their noses into _Chantry_ business, of all things. Not that he could blame them, but it could cause a pretty pickle.

Walking into the Warden's Mess felt like returning home in a way. He had lounged here, drinking and joking with his fellow Wardens, for six months before Ostagar. All the faces were different now, and they were far too few for the size of the room, but it still looked, smelt, and felt familiar. He flopped into what had always been his favourite chair, and rubbed his hands over his face. The Wardens watched, waiting for him to speak. He wasn't at all sure he had any answers for them so, as he had learnt to do at Court, he asked a question instead. "Anders, do they have magic? My Templar training was too long ago, and too incomplete, for me to pick up such raw talent."

"I'm not sure yet, they were already asleep when the Commander called me down here. The boy almost definitely, but the girl," he grimaced, making a see-saw gesture with his hand, "maybe, or she might be a latent. I'll need to test both of them tomorrow."

Oghren took a long swig of ale, and belched loudly. "Don't matter a nugcrap whether they have or not. Sodding Templars were treating 'em like animals."

Anders shook his head emphatically. "You're wrong, Oghren, it does matter. The Chantry has no right to pull in latents. If they are stepping so far out of line, then there are grounds to complain. Otherwise they'll just claim the Templars were bad boys, who would have been disciplined if they had survived. It's not the first time and it won't be the last, either." He shrugged bitterly. "_You_ know how it goes, Alistair – tut, tut, slapped wrist, and a few weeks in a cell, praying. Spend a year in the Circle and you'll see a fair few of the apprentices arrive damaged." His disgust was apparent. "And not only bumps and bruises either," he added with a significant look.

Alistair's mouth twisted to mirror the mage's distaste. "You're right; it shouldn't happen, but it does. And now we have three Templars, dead at the hands of Wardens. It's not going to be easy to claim the moral high ground here, you realise. And your much-famed neutrality just evaporated, too."

The Commander steepled her hands, and regarded him over them. "No-one outside this room knows what happened." Her tone was flat, with no attempt to be conspiratorial.

"Well, if you want to keep this a secret, you can. I'm quite prepared to pretend I know nothing." He gave her a crooked smile. "It's always been one of my _special _talents. But you have to understand: if that is the direction you choose, I can't take any action against the Chantry. And you have two, possibly magical, children on your hands."

Her obsidian gaze was slightly unnerving. "What's the alternative,_ Seigneur_?" The Orlesian honorific seemed so much more formal than 'sire'. But then, everything about this woman was formal.

Alistair folded his arms and frowned, considering it. "For the moment, probably do nothing. Hide the kids here, where Anders can keep an eye on them. I'll need time to find out whether this was a one-off incident, or whether there is more going on." He looked around at the silent Wardens. His natural tendency was to confide in them; they were his brothers, and always would be. Their blood thrummed in time with his. And, on this occasion, they had _chosen_ to stick their noses into politics, so there were some grounds for knowledge sharing. "I've been getting reports of increased field activity on the part of the Templars, and a suggestion that it's their… most _fervent_ brethren that are being sent out. But this is the first confirmed report of abuse."

In truth, he was more worried about some of the things the Templars had said to the Wardens. Back when he was in the Chantry, even the most extreme of the brethren hadn't _ever_ referred to children as apostates. The Chantry's duty had been to find them, and ensure that they were properly taught, not to punish them. But he couldn't act against the Chantry based on hearsay. Or, based on what might be the actions of an isolated group of maniacs, especially ones that now lay dead by the roadside.

Commander Leonie nodded briskly. "_Bon_,we will wait, for the moment. I shall return to Amarathine, as I originally planned. Perhaps the local Banns and Lords will know whether there has been any such activity in the arling. This is not a matter for the Wardens, but as the Arlessa I have a duty to the children, and their parents, _n'est-ce pas?__"_

"Just try not to butcher any more Templars, if possible. It massively complicates things."

_-oOo-_

With Alistair unexpectedly called to the Warden compound, Maddy seized her opportunity.

She had not yet taken up any royal duties. Alistair, with typical consideration, had given her the space to settle in, before allowing any onerous activities to be forced upon her. Soon, she would be expected to become the centre of the female nobility. She must hold salons, and get to know all the wives and daughters of the Banns, Arls, and Teyrns. The Queen must weave a web of loyalty around these ladies, to the Crown, and the aims of the Crown, in order to ensure the Landsmeet supported their King. She had studied Ferelden politics, so different from its Orlesian equivalent, in the months of her betrothal, and had a reasonable understanding of what was required from her.

But for the moment she was free to potter around the palace, get to know the servants and courtiers, and to plant her garden. And in all this activity, one thought had occurred, been pushed aside, and returned again. She was inclined to think that Alistair really wouldn't approve - but it wouldn't go away.

The guards were surprised when the Queen appeared at the gates, accompanied only by her elven maid, and a couple of King's Own. If she could, she would have come without them, as they would undoubtedly report to Alistair. But by then, it would be too late, and if he was angry with her, then so be it.

The guards called the Colonel, who hurried to greet her, and obsequiously agreed to her request. He escorted her to her destination personally, and seemed disappointed when she politely asked him to leave her there.

She stared through the bars at the woman who had tried to kill her.

No, that was unfair, she reminded herself; _who had been coerced into helping to kill her_. The re-wording should have felt like an improvement, but didn't.

Terrified grey eyes stared at her from a haunted face. The prisoner sank to her knees on the stone floor of her cell "Y…Your Majesty."

"Lady Harla. You may rise."

Now that she was here, she wasn't sure what to say. She had felt compelled to come, to see for herself… what? Her throat closed, and she stood uncertain.

Lady Harla rose to her feet, and twisted her hands together, waiting for her Queen to speak. When Maddy merely gazed silently at her through the bars, she nervously lifted her eyes, and licked her lips. "Your Majesty, if I may be permitted to ask… My husband, my son; are they…?"

Maddy jumped slightly at being addressed. She had been lost in her own confused thoughts. "Al… the King ordered them to be held in rooms at the palace, until he is ready to pronounce judgement on this matter. They are comfortable, for the moment, I believe."

The imprisoned woman closed her eyes, relieved tears leaking from under the lids. "Thank you for telling me." Her gratitude appeared genuine. "His Majesty shows true nobility in treating them so."

Maddy's eyebrows drew together, she was suddenly, and inexplicably, furious. "Madame, how could you do this to them? To _votre famille_?" She didn't know why this annoyed her, but it did. This woman had ripped apart the lives of her family; _and would have ripped apart mine, too_. Perhaps that was the basis of this. The grief and pain her husband and son felt mirrored what Philippe, and Alistair, yes, and Leliana also, would have felt if the plan had succeeded. _That _thought made her so angry, she was glad there were bars between them.

More tears were flowing now; the face before her was wretched. Lady Harla sank back to her knees, folding her hands before her in supplication. "Please, Your Majesty, I beg you. My family knew nothing of this, please don't punish them. I'm the one to blame. Do anything you wish to me, but please, don't hurt my husband, my son."

Maddy stared at the pleading woman, unable to answer, incapable of reacting. To be here felt suddenly insupportable; she should not have come. She turned on her heel and hurried away, Kallian and her guards falling in behind her.

_-oOo-_

Kallian didn't know what to make of this woman, whom she had agreed to serve. She still wasn't sure _why_ she had taken the job. There had been a moment, back in the alienage, when she had stared, seething, at the female shem who sat before her, and realised… What? Not that the Queen was _right_, not that their lives were in _any _way similar, regardless of what Shianni thought. That was utter bollocks. Just that… this woman, this _noblewoman_ genuinely thought she was worth arguing with. That she was angry with an elf, not for sloppy work, or her mere existence… but for her _opinion_. And, for reasons unknown, it had made her cry. It shouldn't, but it did. So, after the Queen, and her red-haired friend, had enfolded her in soft, scented comfort - which had been hugely disturbing in, and of, itself – Kallian had inexplicably agreed to guard this vibrant, impetuous Orlesian, who stood no taller than she.

As they scurried back to the palace from Fort Drakon, she kept her eyes on the shadows, watching for threats. They still needed to work out an accommodation on what her position was. Was she a maid, or a bodyguard? Kallian wanted to wear armour, and carry weapons openly, so she could protect her charge. The King had said that the element of surprise served them better; that an assassin would work out a way around a bodyguard. He had a point, but Kallian felt very vulnerable in a dress, with nothing more than a pair of hidden daggers. Perhaps a leather breastplate could be designed, to go over her chemise and under her dress. She could certainly wear leg-guards, with no-one knowing.

When they regained the security of the Royal Chambers, the Queen seemed restless. She wandered around the sitting room, picking things up, fiddling with them, and putting them back down. Their excursion appeared to have unsettled her to an enormous degree. Kallian put away their cloaks, and hovered at the door between the sitting room and the Queen's Chamber, unsure whether she had any other duties.

"Is there anything else you require… er… ma'am?"

The Queen looked up at her, frowning. "You don't have to call me that in private, Kallian. I hate it." She put down the inlaid box she had been turning in her hands, and breathed deeply, coming to a decision. "Go to the chambers where Bann Sighard is being held. Find out if he and his son are still awake. If so, then I wish to visit them."

_-oOo-_

The servant assigned to their rooms brought the astounding message. The Queen's maid had been here, to check if they could receive her mistress. Her Majesty was, even now, on her way to see them.

Oswyn watched his father with concern, unsure that he would be able to withstand such a visitation. Bann Sighard had always been a strong, confident, reassuring presence, not only to his son and to his dependents, but to the entire Dragon's Peak Bannorn. In the moment when it became apparent that his wife had committed treason, that man had vanished, leaving behind a shell, a wreck.

When the servant announced the Queen, Sighard went to receive her, offering her an entirely correct bow and greeting. Oswyn did the same, gritting his teeth a little as he leaned on his cane. They offered her refreshment, which she refused, and a seat, which she accepted. Her elven maid followed her to the chair, and stood at her side, an unseemly scowl on her scarred face. Two King's Own guards took up positions inside the sitting room doors. Despite the social niceties, and the comfortable rooms, there was no doubt that the Queen was visiting prisoners in their cell.

Sighard took a seat in the other chair, while Oswyn lowered himself carefully onto the sofa, opposite the Queen. Her face was pale, but her jaw set with determination. Her green eyes roamed over both their faces, seeking he knew not what.

His father broke the silence. "To what do we owe this honour, Your Majesty."

The Queen's hands were clasped in her lap, at the question they tightened slightly. "I apologize for calling upon you at such a late hour. I have just returned from Fort Drakon, from visiting your wife."

The pain in Sighard's eyes made Oswyn want to reach out to him, but the older man's expression remained unyielding. "What is it you wish of me, Ma'am? I am entirely at your disposal."

The Queen was looking searchingly at the Bann, still seeking something. "She asked after you; after both of you. In fact, all of her concern was for you two, she desires only to see you unharmed. I thought you may wish to know this."

Oswyn's breath hissed between his teeth at the look on his father's face. Why was the Queen telling them this? Was she punishing them? What did she think they could _do_?

Sighard appeared to have turned to stone, his teeth gritted, only the muscle jumping in his jaw showing life. When he spoke, it was with difficulty, but without emotion. "Your Majesty, there is no point to you informing me of this. The damage to our name, and our honour, has been done. Nothing can change that. Nothing can alter the crime that my w- … that she has committed."

The Queen's gaze travelled from Sighard, to Oswyn, and back to his father. "Excuse me, but I have been here only a few days, and perhaps I am not yet fully _au fait_ with Ferelden law. My husband has not yet passed judgement on this matter. Can there be only one outcome?"

Sighard frowned, looking a little bewildered under the stony crust, and Oswyn didn't blame him. Why would the Queen ask _them_? Surely she had advisors who would be happy to inform her of the punishment for treason.

The Bann answered her as courteously as he could, however. "In a matter of treason, the King has the right to pass what judgement he wills, but it is customary to execute the perpetrators, and in the case of nobles to strip their house of its land, property and title."

The Queen's next question was soft. "And _la famille, _the family, who already suffer pain and humiliation? What do _you_ think should happen to them?"

Oswyn closed his eyes briefly. Watching Sighard these last few difficult, days, a secret suspicion had been growing; that his father _wished_ to shoulder the blame, was _hoping_ to be executed. That it was not duty or strength that motivated him, but rather a desire for an escape from the shame, and the Queen appeared to be playing directly into his hands.

Sighard looked her in the eye. "In the abstract, the King may choose to do what he wills, although there are expectations he must consider. But we are not speaking of the abstract, are we? Ma'am, I am the head of my household. I am responsible for all my dependents. Anything that occurs within the boundaries of my estate reflects on me."

The Queen raised her eyebrows, seeming to challenge him. "So, if one of your farmers was to steal, do you receive the same punishment that he does?"

Cracks showed in the Bann's façade. "This is my _wife_ we are talking about. I should have known, should have prevented it…" He regained control swiftly. "_I_ am responsible for those who hold my name, and my honour, in their hands. My only hope is that the King will be merciful enough to spare the life of my son."

"I see." She turned to Oswyn. "And you? What do you think?"

What did he _think_? He thought that this woman made no sense, coming here to ask them such questions. What did it _matter _what they thought? The King would decide, or the Landsmeet if he decided to call one. However, she was their new Queen, and it behoved him to answer her question. "I think I am no more, and no less, culpable than my father. I would not wish to see him embrace a fate that I did not."

For some obscure reason, this earned him a sweet smile that transformed her face. "Thank you. I apologise for causing you both pain. I shall take my leave of you now."

They rose when she did, and bowed her out of the room, her guards falling in behind her. As soon as she left, his father bolted for his chamber and shut the door. Oswyn poured himself a stiff drink with shaking hands. What, in the depths of the Black City, was _that_ all about?

_-oOo-_

The door had barely closed behind Alistair, when determined fingers began to remove his clothes. "Hello… um… what about the servants?"

"I sent them to bed." Maddy ripped off his shirt, flung it to one side, and immediately started on his trousers.

He obligingly stepped out of them as she knelt to pull them down, planting a quick kiss on his thigh on the way past. He belatedly realised that his wife was wearing only a very flimsy robe, which clung to her in number of interesting ways. "You know, I'm not usually quite so irresistible. Not that I'm complaining or anything, but, is there a reason for all this urgency?"

Maddy snagged his wrist, and hauled him down to the floor. "We're alive," she said fiercely, and proceeded to prove it.

_-oOo-_


	18. Chapter 18

_-oOo-_

Having learnt everything he needed to know, and a number of interesting things he didn't, he staked out and marked up the corpse in the prescribed manner, ensuring that the message contained absolutely no ambiguity. The situation was becoming repetitive, and these so-called Masters were getting younger every day. None of the older, wiser ones would touch this contract with a gondola pole, and the training these sweet young things received just didn't seem to be up to the old standard.

The slim figure slipped out of the building, and into the back streets of Val Royeaux, the flambeau overhead gleaming on a strand of pale hair escaping his hood. He melted back into the shadows, away from the light, and considered his next move. In that recently vacated, shabby room, he had been told something he _really_ didn't want to know; if he had any sense at all, he would ignore it, and be on his way. It wasn't why he was here, and it wasn't his concern. Old anger and grief flared up, and even older discipline coldly choked it. There was no advantage to dwelling on the past, and no reason _at all_ to be involved in the present. He swung on his heel, and resolutely walked away from the situation.

Five minutes later, he headed in an entirely different direction, cursing fluently in a language that was not Orlesian.

_-oOo-_

This_ bloody_ woman would be the death of him. Alistair stomped into the orangery in a wave of irritation; a clanking intrusion within this peaceful retreat. He had been on his way to train when Cedric intercepted him, and was armed and armoured, totally at odds with the tinkle of the fountain, the scent of growing things. Feeling like a golem in a china shop didn't improve his mood. He could see no sign of his wife, but Bertram had assured him that this was where she was.

"Maddy?"

"In here." Her voice came from behind the screen at one end, where she had tables set up for potting, and whatever other esoteric processes gardeners engaged in.

Insert his bulky presence into an environment filled with delicate seedlings, and dainty ceramics? Better not. "Come here, I need to talk to you."

His wife emerged from her domain, wiping her hands on a rag that she tossed behind her. Her welcoming smile faltered as she took in his stormy face. "Oh. You heard then." She crossed her arms, a mulish look invading the pixie face. "Well _mon mari_, what have you to say?"

Her defensive posture wound him up even more. "_What have I to say_? To what, pray? The fact that you sneaked off behind my back, to see the woman who tried to _kill_ you?"

"But Alistair, what else was I to do? I needed to see her, and I knew you would not wish me to." How did she manage to say absurd, ridiculous things in such a reasonable tone? It was infuriating.

"If you had _told_ me, _trusted_ me, then I could have come with you. At least I would have known you were _safe_."

Maddy shook her head stubbornly. "Then she would have spoken to you, not me. That would not have served at all. And I _was_ safe. I took guards, even though I knew they would tell you." She stepped towards him, and took his hands, her expression softening. "It was not my intention to hide this from you, Alistair. Just to ensure you didn't stop me. I needed to know what she would say. What she would say _to me_."

He shifted uncomfortably, not yet ready to let his annoyance slide. But his fingers traitorously tightened on hers. "And Sighard? Did you need to know what he would say, too?"

Her thumbs rubbed the back of his fingers, her expression was apologetic. "Yes. After I had spoken to… _her_, yes, I did. It was important."

He struggled with his emotions; hurt that she had gone behind his back, anger that he had to hear from the guards, fear for her, oh yes, lots of _that_. Only one word escaped to express it all. "_Why_?"

She sighed with a touch of sadness, her eyes on his hands, which she still held. She looked up, and there was concern in her face. "Come and sit down. Please." She led him to the sunny corner, where seats and a table were set up for her convenience. The wicker creaked under his weight as he sat at her side. She still held one of his hands in both of hers, frowning down at it as she gathered her thoughts. When she looked up at him, her green gaze was intent. "Alistair, what's expected of you? What will you have to do to Bann Sighard, and his son, Oswyn?"

His jaw tightened. He'd been trying not to think about that. "I… don't know. Harla, and the man who tried to kill you, they will hang. There is no question about that." She nodded, clearly having no issue with this decision. His eyes slid away from hers, uncomfortable under her gaze. "But the others… it depends on what Philippe turns up in Orlais. If they are found to have been involved, then they also hang. But if they are innocent…" That was the part he was having trouble with.

Maddy prompted him. "If they are innocent, then they will still be stripped of land and title? Exiled? Don't be shy of saying it to me, Alistair. In Orlais, the Empress would probably have Bann Sighard, at the very least, executed also."

His eyes flew back to her face in shock. "Is _that_ what you want?"

This met with a vehement shake of the head. "No, not at all; this is why I needed to hear what they had to say." She pressed his hand, leaning towards him, intent on making him understand. "When I saw Lady Harla, the _only_ thing she cared about was the fate of her family. I was so angry with her about that. I would have _died_ before I put those I love at such risk. And there she was, having taken the risk, having put them in jeopardy, begging for them after the fact."

Her fingers laced through his and tightened. He wondered about the extent of her feelings for him, his own emotions were so muddled. "So you went to see Sighard?"

She nodded. "I didn't know him before, I don't know what he is usually like, but he seemed… ill, broken-up. And yet he stubbornly maintained that he was culpable for her actions. That, as the head of the household, he deserved no less punishment than her."

This fitted with the man's behaviour in the throne room a few days ago. Sighard was a good man. He began to see where she was going with this. "And Oswyn?"

"Oswyn won't see his father embrace a fate that he doesn't. I don't think he agrees with Sighard, although he wouldn't say so, but he'll stand by him to the hilt."

"Maddy, they don't get to decide. I do. And I have no intention of executing the innocent."

"Which is why I had to see them alone; there was no other way I could find out what they think. None of this was going to come out during their judgement, was it?"

"No." He released her hands, and rubbed his hands through his hair in exasperation. "You don't want me to exile them, do you?"

"Or strip them of their land."

"_What_?" He stood up hurriedly, taking a few hasty steps before turning back to her. "Maddy, you don't know what you're asking. Much though I hate to say it, Eamon is right about this. I can't be seen as weak. Anyone who wants to act against me will set up a scapegoat in their household, secure in the belief that I'll let them get away with it. It'll become impossible to tell the guilty from the innocent."

She smiled up at him, sudden mischief in her face. "I know. But there might be another way."

_-oOo-_

Having arranged a significant transfer of funds to Ferelden, Philippe bid his banker farewell, and ran lightly down the steps of the fine old building in the Business Quarter. He paused on the street a moment, working out where to go next. He had time to kill before he could reasonably ask for an update from the Imperial Chancellor's Office, and preferred _not_ to spend it at the palace, if possible. Perhaps a stroll around the markets; he still hadn't found a satisfactory wedding present for his sister and her husband. This would best be remedied in the fine shops of Val Royeaux, rather than on his return to Ferelden. The decision made, he turned, and caught the small body hurtling into him.

"Pardon, sieur." The grubby urchin scampered off, leaving a slip of paper in the hand of the Prince. Philippe first checked to ensure he still had his coin pouch, and then, satisfied that he had not been robbed, he read the words so unceremoniously presented to him.

_The songbird has been silenced. I know something of his final performance._

Below this interesting, if somewhat obscure, message, was the name and address of a tavern.

_-oOo-_

"You summon the power like so," he reached into the Fade and expertly seized the minute amount required for the spell, "and release your will…thus." A tiny flame appeared in Anders' palm, as two pairs of eyes watched in wonder. "Now, you try. You go first, Lucan"

The towheaded boy held out his hand, palm up, and frowned over it, impatient to succeed. Anders felt the tug as he clumsily grasped what he needed, far more than he needed, in fact. "Whoa there, stop. If you use all that, you'll set your arm on fire." The child grinned impishly, clearly seeing this as a good thing. "Let that power dissipate, and start again."

"Good morning, sweetlings."

At the sound of that musical voice, both children immediately jumped to their feet, and ran across the yard shouting, "Leliana, Leliana!" Anders quenched the sudden, aerial, burst of flame from Lucan's careless release with a blast of ice, and sighed. He'd never been cut out for this level of teaching; it required a certain kind of mind to know how to demonstrate spells that were so basic they had become instinctive.

Leliana popped Orlesian _pate de fruits_ into the mouths of the two children clustered around her. "Sweets for my sweets," she said gaily, and kissed them both soundly. She looked over at the blond mage climbing to his feet, and dusting off his robes, and bestowed upon him a smile so innocent it was mischievous. "And one for teacher. Always keep your teachers sweet, my dear ones." She proffered the box, so that Anders could help himself.

He took a piece of candied fruit and stood with it between finger and thumb, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I notice that _they_ got a sweetie _and_ a kiss. Short-changing me, huh? That won't keep me sweet. And who wants to risk having a grumpy mage around the house?"

She giggled, putting the little sweetmeat box away in her bag, before looking up at him, big blue eyes shining with unholy mirth. "Oh, can I be there when you tell Alistair you burnt his palace to the ground because a woman denied you a kiss?"

"Once he realises just how gorgeous the woman was, I'm sure he'll be very understanding." Flirting with Leliana was great fun; she knew the rules, and played spectacularly well. He watched as she turned her attention back to the children, sitting on the floor with them, and asking them about their day.

She came over to the Warden compound every day to see the children, who adored her. Alistair had arranged a nursemaid to take care of them, so that Anders didn't have to spend all his time at the compound, but they needed to be trained in their magic, so the mage spent his mornings there. Lucan badly needed to learn control; the boy was overflowing with talent. The girl, Hilda, was more like a calm pond. Anders still wasn't convinced that she was a mage, although in this environment her latent talent was much more likely to bloom. He wasn't at all sure that was a good thing. Some latents remained that way their entire lives unless they were exposed to magic; it was why the chantry traditionally left them alone. After all, who would choose to be a mage unless they must; shunned, locked away, feared?

His situation at the Palace was almost as easygoing as it was at the Keep; there had always been a Court Mage here. Even the servants were comfortable near him, provided he didn't actually fling magic around. And the King and Queen treated their advisors with an astonishing lack of formality. After dealing with that horrendous assault the night before their wedding, it had been easy for him to think of them as Alistair and Maddy, and they seemed extremely keen to keep it that way. The only fly in the ointment was Arl Eamon. He seemed to view the burgeoning friendships between his rulers, and their two new advisors, as inappropriate, and his sour face was starting to get on everyone's nerves.

Anyway, time for work. He sat cross-legged opposite the children surrounding Leliana, and smiled at them. "So, Lucan, now you have a beautiful woman to impress; show us what you can do."

"Oh, yes, I want to see your magic. Show me." Leliana's enthusiasm infected the boy who blushed and concentrated, grabbing enough power to leave a smoking hole in the compound.

"Slow down; try to leave _some_ of Denerim intact. Now, dissipate, and then take just a pinch."

_-oOo-_

The barkeep's eyes widened at the presence of such a fine chevalier in his tavern, and his bow was so low his nose nearly touched his knees. Monseigneur will require a private parlour, no doubt? No? A table in the public room. If Monseigneur is sure, then of course. He ushered his customer to a quiet corner table, and scurried to get him wine. Philippe dusted off the chair with a handkerchief and seated himself. The tavern was not so mean that he was in any danger from the patrons, but not frequented by _la noblesse_ either. It seemed to be a place where solid members of the _bourgeoisie_ came to drink and dine. It was not at all what he had been expecting.

The proprietor returned with his wine, and bowed again. "Pardon Monseigneur, but it appears your servant has already booked a parlour on your behalf. If Monseigneur would care to follow me?" Philippe did so, wondering if he was about to get himself killed. However, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had such fun, and would, doubtless, die of curiosity anyway if he backed out now. So be it.

The tavern keeper led him into a pleasant room, placing the carafe of wine on a table next to some glasses. He bowed low and departed, closing the door behind him, leaving Philippe alone. He strolled over to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. His heart was hammering with excitement at this adventure, but he had no intention of betraying it. He turned his head, nostrils flaring, and smiled. "That's a very fine cologne, _mon ami_. I use it myself, on occasion." He sank into a comfortable chair, and awaited developments.

"Then you have excellent taste." The strongly accented voice was smooth and melodious, like a ripple of warm honey. Philippe was not at all sure what he had been expecting, but the figure who stepped from the shadowy corner was not it.

It was an elf, for a start; an exceptionally well-groomed and attractive elf. His pale gold hair gleamed, and tanned skin glowed with health, although a few telltale lines suggested this was not a young man. He moved across the room with remarkable grace, supple leathers moving like a second skin. As he turned towards Philippe to drop into the chair opposite, the left side of his face became visible for the first time, revealing a sinuous tattoo snaking from his temple to the corner of his mouth. Brilliant, watchful, amber eyes travelled over him, while a carefully controlled smile curved the elf's mouth. Two things were certain; this man was not, and had never been, a servant. And he was, undoubtedly, extremely dangerous.

Philippe gestured to the table, inordinately pleased that his hand didn't shake. "May I offer you some wine?"

"I thank you, but no. Your Orlesian wines don't suit my tastes."

"And you wish to keep a clear head, no doubt. You will excuse my curiosity, I hope. Are you here to kill me?"

The smile widened, amusement brightening the vivid eyes even further. "I am pleased to say, I am not. Surely it would be a tragedy to remove such beauty from the world."

Philippe felt heat rise in his face, which was ridiculous. He owned a mirror, knew what the Maker had graced him with. He received such compliments all the time, from women and men alike, and brushed them aside. It was merely because he was unsettled by the situation, certainly. "Then, may I ask why I have the pleasure of your company?"

"We have a mutual…" the elf's face expressed a hint of distaste before he selected the next word, "…friend. I have accidentally stumbled upon some information, which you and that friend will wish to have."

"Oh? And who is our mutual friend? Forgive me, but I dislike dealing in generalities."

There was something in his expression that was difficult to decipher. "Alistair." The name was given flatly, all emotion hidden.

Philippe's eyebrows rose. "You expect me to believe that you are a friend of the King of Ferelden?"

The careful smile twisted slightly, the amber eyes held a challenge. "Oh? And why not?"

Philippe looked rueful, thinking of some of the more unconventional elements present for his sister's wedding. "Why not, indeed. Can you prove it?"

The elf shrugged. "Does it matter? I cannot produce some letter or trinket from him, if that is your desire. I worked with him for some time, and I know him well. I do not wish harm upon his bride. And now, I believe I know something that may assist him."

"What is your price?"

"Ah, you have mistaken my trade. I am not a spy, or an informer, and I do not peddle information."

This intricate dance was stimulating, but Philippe was beginning to wonder if it was going anywhere. "What is your trade, then?"

The elf sat forward, eyes intent on his face. "Do you want my help, or not? For a man who bravely, or foolishly, walked in here blind, you are strangely cautious."

Philippe came to a sudden decision. "Yes, I do."

The man opposite sank back in his chair, smile widening. "Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Zevran. And in answer to your question; I am an assassin, a former Antivan Crow."

"You're one of the Blight Companions." Of course he is. An elf with this manner and bearing, who knows Alistair; who else would he be? Philippe cursed his own stupidity. "Why didn't you say so before?"

Zevran shrugged nonchalantly. "If you had not wished for my assistance, then there would have been no need for you to know my identity. Now, let us proceed."

_-oOo-_

First Enchanter Irving stretched wearily at his desk; glad to be back, and looking forward to his bed. After several days of hard riding, he and Cullen had arrived home at the Circle. His new Knight Commander had seemed inordinately keen to press on as quickly as possible, and had exhibited little patience with the advanced years, and infirmities, of the mage he accompanied.

Irving sighed, thumbing through the drift of reports and correspondence awaiting his input with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He had not anticipated just how much he would miss Greagoir; they had been working together so long, it felt almost obscene to still be here when he was gone. Not for the first time, he wished Wynne had accepted his offer to take over the Circle, instead of haring off to Tevinter with a golem. Damned woman was always seeking the next big adventure. Ostagar and Uldred combined had left him with very few mages competent to hold the rank of Senior Enchanter, and none whatsoever fit to take over as First Enchanter. Particularly now, with a Knight Commander who… Well, the fact was, since Uldred, Greagoir had treated Cullen very gently. He hadn't been trusted to fight the Blight, and he wasn't left alone with any mages… just in case. And now, the Grand Cleric had put him, of all people, in charge of the Circle Templars. When word arrived of whom she had chosen, Irving had intended to ask for her to reconsider; surely it was an error, perhaps she didn't know the circumstances. But, when they arrived at the Denerim Chantry, and the First Enchanter looked into her eyes, he knew it was useless. All he could do now was try to protect his charges to the best of his ability.

There was a knock at the half-open door. "First Enchanter?" A young mage with long dark hair stood there, a steaming mug in her hand.

"Ah, Keili, do come in child."

"I brought you some cocoa; I thought you might be chilled after your journey." She placed the fragrant cup on his desk, and smiled at him.

"Cocoa, is it?" He took a sip. "Well, well, that is a treat indeed. Thank you, Keili. I shall drink this, and then retire, I think. These old bones need to rest."

The young mage gripped the symbol of Andraste she always wore at her throat, and nodded earnestly. "Yes, First Enchanter, I do think that would be for the best."

_-oOo-_


	19. Chapter 19

_-oOo-_

_Reports from the militia are that crime in the city is…_

Maddy tickled Claudia's exposed belly, listening to the background hum of voices. These men reported on a day-to-day basis to the Chancellor, Arl Eamon, but once a week they presented a summary of their reports to the King.

_We've been receiving the usual complaints from the Chantry about lyrium smugglers… _

Alistair had moved most of his meetings to their sitting room this week, rather than holding them in one of the audience chambers. This allowed Maddy to quietly listen in from an armchair, and gain an understanding of the politics and economics of her new country. It gave her the opportunity to learn, without appearing to do so. It wouldn't do for these senior servants of the Crown to perceive her as ignorant; a stigma like that could stick in their minds forever. So Alistair said, anyway, and he should know, having shouldered this burden under atrocious circumstances.

_The re-population of Lothering is proceeding, but with the land there badly blighted, the incentives… _

Her gaze roamed over Alistair's face, noting the weary lines around his eyes and mouth. He worked himself too hard, took too little leisure. These last few days she had seen how demanding his staff were, referring problems to the King that they should have been able to solve themselves. He had never been taught how to delegate, and years of taking orders, rather than giving them, had ingrained in him an instinctive reaction to having a task put before him. It didn't occur to him to say no, to send them away because their timing was inconvenient. She could teach him delegation, and had already started waving people away when they tried to pester him unnecessarily. Let them think it was snooty Imperial manners; she didn't care, provided it made things better for her husband.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Put in place the policy adjustments we've agreed upon today; if any of them cause urgent problems, inform the Arl, and he'll let me know." Alistair stood, bringing the meeting to an end, and the group of sober men bowed themselves from the royal presence. He stretched wearily, bones cracking from being seated too long, and Maddy set Claudia on the floor so that she could rise from her chair.

"Come on," she said briskly, "we're going out."

Alistair pulled a face. "Ugh, I wish I could, but I have a meeting with the Orlesian ambassador."

She smiled at him fondly. "You _had_ a meeting, and I moved it. The advantage of being an Orlesian Princesse is being able to manipulate my ambassador without offending him. That meeting is now tomorrow morning, together with your other ones, leaving this afternoon _and_ tomorrow afternoon free."

He brightened visibly. "Wow, really. That's great, what do you want to do?"

"I've ordered a picnic, and a crewed boat. I'm told that the little island off Alamar is beautiful, and it's a gorgeous day." She touched his face gently. "You need some fresh air; you look pale and tired."

Alistair wrapped his arms round her, his chin on her head. She felt her own tension from the long meeting release from her shoulders in that warm cocoon. "How did I manage all this time, without you to boss me around?" he murmured, into her hair.

She pressed her cheek against his chest, hearing his heart beat strongly against her ear, and smiled. "You coped wonderfully well, my husband." The pride in her voice made his arms tighten. "But together, we will do better."

_-oOo-_

"So, the bard, Moreau; he is dead?"

"Yes, the mark of a Crow contract." Zevran smirked at the Orlesian Prince, with a hint of reproach. "Oh, _such_ an expression, and on such a handsome face, _il mio amico_. But, on this occasion, you misjudge me. It was not my handiwork."

"Please accept my apologies." The man opposite took a sip of wine, showing admirable composure, considering he was clearly a long way out of his depth. It seemed there was more to admire here than mere beauty. "May I ask how you know this? And, who ordered the assassination?"

"You may ask me anything you desire." He made sure the last word hit just the right register, watching the Prince's reaction, or attempted lack of reaction, with great interest. "The Crow who carried out the hit made a bad career move," Zev's smile became predatory, "he was foolish enough to accept a contract on me, also."

Fathoms-deep blue eyes regarded him with astonishment. "On you? Why?"

"Why did he accept the contract? Or why is there a contract out on me?" The assassin unfolded from his chair, taking the carafe of wine to refill Philippe's glass. He steadied the glass with his hand over the other man's. "He accepted it because he was too young, and too stupid, to follow the example of his betters. As for my contract," he released the full glass, allowing his fingers to subtly slide against skin as he withdrew, "there is always a contract on me. There always will be. I left them heartbroken at my departure, and they simply cannot forgive the loss of my company." Zevran returned to his seat.

Philippe swallowed visibly, whether at the implications, or the skin contact, it was impossible to say. "So… you killed him."

"But, of course. Having first ensured that he shared with me all he knew about anyone _else _suicidal enough to take my contract. In the process of gaining that knowledge, he told me other things. The details of the hit on the bard poured out with the rest; he was deplorably easy to break. Really, with standards as they are at present, I'm almost ashamed to say I've been a Crow." He shook his head, mournfully. "Although it is possible I am contributing to the drop in standards. The more of these _bambini _masquerading as Crow Masters I have to kill, the faster they have to train their shoddy replacements."

Distaste and a flicker of fear were briefly apparent on the face of the nobleman before him. Philippe fortified himself with another sip of wine, taking his time over it. After a moment his face visibly smoothed, and he addressed the assassin with all the assurance of any Orlesian noble, and far more courtesy than most. "It is, of course, always fascinating to observe the details of a life so far removed from one's own. But I confess that I am keen to hear about the man who tried to have my sister killed." He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "If you would be so kind?"

"Oh, so formal. Have I not said you may ask of me whatever you desire?" Zev's smile appeared to bounce off the aristocratic mask before him. _Il Principe _had recovered his composure, it seemed. The assassin knew all about masks, and did not begrudge the man his. "The contract was an unusual one. Actually, I am surprised it was accepted, but then, as I have said, I am surprised by many things about the Crows now." He shrugged and continued. "The Crows contracted not only to kill Moreau, and dispose of the body, but also to plant false evidence in his rooms." Zevran made a face of disdain. "A bard's work, and unworthy of an assassin."

The Prince put his glass on the table, and sat forward, looking suddenly worried. "What kind of evidence?"

"A false trail; papers leading to the supposed client who ordered the hit on Alistair's bride."

Philippe sprang to his feet. "What? _Sacré coeur d'Andraste_, you knew this, and have wasted time _flirtin_g? Up, man! We must secure these papers before Celene does."

Zevran's mouth curved into a smile that entirely vindicated Philippe's accusation of flirting, and he uncoiled gracefully from his seat. "So _masterful_; but I am wounded by your lack of faith." He moved to stand directly in front of the taller human, looking up at that handsome face, currently marred by an impatient frown. The assassin reached into a hidden pocket and, with a flourish, produced a packet of papers. His smile grew as those blue, blue eyes flew to his. His own eyes dropped to linger on Philippe's mouth. And what a mouth it was. "As I say, I'm wounded. But if you wish to kiss it better, I'm very willing."

Again, the mask clicked into place. It was an urbane nobleman who bowed to him with considerable aplomb. "Enticing though your generous offer may be, I must regretfully decline. You have my gratitude for obtaining these, however."

"Alas. If you change your mind, I should be delighted to accommodate you." Really, this man was fascinating; such desire, such restraint. It was a great shame he would not have the opportunity to crack open that smooth, aristocratic shell.

Philippe was perusing the papers, a concerned crease between his eyes. "These papers point to the Comte de Val Foret; he's an Orlesian of the old school. He still believes we should have poured troops into holding Ferelden, and makes no secret of it." He looked up, troubled. "Were they hoping to cause a war between Orlais and Ferelden? If Celene's agents had found these, she would have squashed it immediately; executed him publically, apologised to Alistair. There would have been no war. What were they trying to achieve?"

"Well, the first point of a false trail is to disguise the true target. Other than that," Zevran shrugged nonchalantly, "did they know that Alistair would send you to the Empress? Isn't it a rather unusual tactic for one monarch to apply to another in such a matter? The little Templar has always been so naïve. Perhaps they assumed that the King of Ferelden would send his own agents to track the bard. This note in the hands of the Ferelden Crown would be inflammatory, no?"

The prince nodded thoughtfully, rereading the papers. "Did you get any information on who paid for the contract?"

"Unfortunately not; and I'm sure he would have told me, if he knew. I can be quite persuasive." The assassin smiled gently at Philippe's expression. "The fact that he didn't know was, in itself, interesting. He may not have deserved the title, but he _was_ a Crow Master. They tend to know who ordered their contracts."

Philippe sighed pensively. "Please recall that I have no personal insight into your, doubtless, exciting world. Why is this interesting, exactly?"

"Because contracts held directly by the head of the Crows - the Grand Master - and farmed out to Masters anonymously, tend to have originated from rather elevated sources. Kings, emperors, grand clerics. The kind of people who have large, impressive hats."

The Prince shook his head slowly. "It would make no sense for Celene to have ordered this. If she was looking for an excuse to go to war with Ferelden, why would she make the alliance in the first place?"

"Would it suit her to have _Ferelden_ go to war with _her_; to break their alliance, give her the moral high ground? Or, would another country wish to see Orlais and Ferelden busily slaughtering each other, giving them the chance to act unobserved? Politics are such fun, no?"

Philippe bit his lip thoughtfully. "I need to extricate myself as gently as possible from Celene's clutches, and return to Ferelden. It would be best if she knew nothing of this."

Zevran chuckled in amusement. "Your chosen loyalties are most fascinating, _il mio amico. _Are you not an Imperial Prince of Orlais?"

The look that Prince Philippe gave him was stern enough to make his knees go weak with lust. "My favourite sister is the Queen of Ferelden, and, most importantly, the one they tried to kill. The night before her wedding, I might add. This is not politics, Zevran, this is _family_."

"My apologies, _il mio Principe_." Zev wisely refrained from pointing out that the Empress was also family. Let the man believe what he wished, it was no concern of his. "Do give my regards to _dear_ Alistair on your return." He was unable to entirely refrain from injecting a little smooth poison into the words.

Surprise was evident on his companion's face. "You aren't coming with me? Don't you want to inform Alistair of what you found personally?"

Zevran's smile mixed mischief and flirtatiousness to perfection. "See, I knew I would grow on you. On closer acquaintance, you will recognise how irresistible I am." Philippe's irritated expression was belied by his faint blush. "Our little Templar, on the other hand, will survive without my company." _At the end, that was truer than anyone knew. _Old anger, old grief, locked away safe.

_-oOo-_

They pattered in and out of the cold surf, exaggerated squeals of pain accompanied by chuckles at their discomfort. Even at midsummer, the sun in northern Ferelden was not hot enough to warm the water significantly. Paddling was, at best, a pleasant torture. A lopsided sandcastle, with a pitiful moat, stood nearby. Neither of the royal couple had ever made one before, and it had proved surprisingly difficult. Ghislain was far inland, so Maddy hadn't previously even seen a sandy beach. Alistair's upbringing had, naturally, allowed for no such frivolities.

Inland, the wet, chilly sand slowly changed to pebbles which, in turn, gave way to scrub grass. Laid out on this were the remains of a picnic for five. Their two watchful guards, and one elven bodyguard lounged near it; the tree-line behind them provided the comfort of shade. There was no real need for alertness, the area had been scouted on arrival, and this part of the island was completely uninhabited.

Beyond the tree-line, a sunny glade had been found, the grass comparatively lush. It was there that Alistair and Maddy went to dry out after their oceanic frolic. Their guards remained where they were, trying to skate the thin ice between earning their pay, and providing their liege lord with _some_ measure of privacy. Alistair flung himself down on the grass, enjoying the unusual sensation of being young and free. He'd gone from stable-hand, to chantry-ward, to Templar, to Warden, to King. Work and duty had defined his life; so much so that he didn't even notice it anymore. Strange really, he mused, that now, when he no longer chafed against it, someone was, for the first time, offering him alternatives.

That particular someone dropped down beside him, and took up her favourite position curled against his side, his arm around her shoulder, her hand on his chest. The sun here was warmer, concentrated by the circle of trees that sheltered them, the drowsy quiet broken only by the twittering of birds, and the buzzing of a bee nearby. Utter relaxation was a novelty that brought consequences of its own; his eyelids drifted down, and he floated away into the Fade, a gentle breeze on his face, soft breath slowing at his side.

_He knew what he stood in the presence of, as did they all. Every root and branch, every seed and blade, every stem and leaf, felt it. There was only one way to pay homage to such a power, and that was to accept it gratefully. To take what was offered, and use it wisely. To flourish. To offer what one had, and what one was, in return. A growth, an irritation, on his body may be shed, the relief sweet. There was confusion in his consciousness, as the taste of wild strawberries hit the back of his tongue. 'Taste' and 'tongue' were concepts of which he should know nothing, they were alien, unknown. The confusion caused separation, between that which knew of root and branch, and that which knew of taste and tongue. The dreamers drew apart in the Fade, the contact lost…_

Alistair shifted, the sun red through his eyelids, a soft murmur of protest below his chin. He turned his head towards the sound, squinting as he opened his eyes, raising his hand to shade them against the sun slanting through the treetops. _Probably around five bells_, he thought, and kissed his wife's sun-warmed forehead in the hope of promoting wakefulness. She, in turn, shifted and stretched. She was as languorous as one of her cats, blinking up at him with a sleepy smile.

"Time to go home, Maddy," he said, and laughed at her disappointed moue. "It's been… just great," he added, folding her in a final embrace, "best day ever." They climbed to their feet, brushing off loose grass and sand, before returning to the beach to pack up. The residents of the glade bid them farewell, with a silent paean of glowing health, and beauty.

_-oOo-_

The tipsy couple weaved, making unsteady progress down the hall, two steps forward, and one step back. The pretty redhead was supporting the man beside her, his blond hair escaping from his tail, her rouge on the collar of his shabby doublet.

"An', an', wha' was that drink called? In that other pub? Wh…why is it," he blinked owlishly as she stopped him from colliding with a wall, "whoa, where did that come from, wha' was I saying'? Oh yeah, why is it that the more diff'rent booze there is inna drink, the dirtier the name is?"

The redhead smiled apologetically at the two men standing in front of a door, while she tried to navigate her burden past them. Her task was made harder because their bulky armour was taking up a fair chunk of the hall.

"Hey, them's biiiig blokes, ain't they? Wh… why are they wearing skirts?" The drunk frowned at the purple and yellow cloth protruding from under their plate armour and giggled inanely, before being dragged away by his guide. She propped him against a wall, as she fumbled for the key to the next room along, and the two Templars shifted their gaze back ahead of them. A moment later there was an almighty crash as they both tipped onto the floor, fast asleep.

"Anders! Did you _have_ to use sleep? I thought you'd have a nice, quiet paralyse or something for them." The lady was already picking the lock on the door the Templars were guarding.

"Oo, hark at Miss I-know-all-about-magic. Paralysing more than one person takes too long, they would have felt the power forming." The remarkably sober mage grinned at his companion, adventure sparkling in his eyes.

Leliana pulled out a pair of daggers and took up a position next to the door. "They must have heard it. Ready?" At his nod, she stretched an arm to the side and opened the door, without crossing his line of sight, and as soon as the first spell had gone off, she slipped in and disabled the one he hadn't. They dragged the ones slumped outside into the room. In a remarkably short space of time, all four Templars were bound, gagged and unconscious, and their two attackers could turn their attention to the pitiful bundles of humanity on the floor in the corner.

"Oh, the poor little ones! Anders, quickly, they are hurting."

The mage was already running his hands over one of the three children, checking for serious injuries before worrying about any of the comparatively minor cuts and bruises. Leliana busied herself cutting their bonds, and hushing them, concerned about drawing too much attention.

"Shh, hush, my dears, it's alright, don't cry, we're going to get you out, but you must be brave for Leliana, yes?"

Anders was cursing quietly, handling the arm of a boy of about eight, expertly. "Broken. I can fix it, but it's going to hurt." He looked at his companion, and she nodded, moving to cradle the child. When the sleep spell hit him, he therefore slumped into her arms, rather than to the floor.

The youngest of the other children, a girl, whimpered, and looked at them with frightened eyes. Leliana made haste to reassure her. "Don't worry, my sweet. It's just while we make his arm better, he'll wake up again soon." The mage was seated on the floor, eyes closed, waves of healing energy washing out from him.

After a few moments, Anders released his grip on the Fade, and focused his gaze on Leliana. "The Collective's information was correct then," he said. The message had reached him at the Warden compound that morning, and he had pleaded with Leliana to help him achieve a rescue. "Damn these inhuman bastards." His gaze was grim as it rested on the unconscious Templars. "What do we do with them?" It was clearly a loaded question.

"We can't just kill them. Not when they are helpless. It's wrong." Wrong or not, her protests sounded feeble to her own ears, with these frightened, bruised, dirty children clustered around her.

"They _saw us_, Leliana. What do you think Alistair's going to say, when the Grand Cleric turns up on his doorstep breathing fire, because two of his advisors interfered in so-called Chantry _justice_." The last word had a bitten-off savagery that sounded strange in the mouth of the easy-going mage.

She chewed her lip in an agony of indecision; spurred on by the knowledge that they needed to get the children out of here quick, before the tavern staff noticed something wrong. "Fine, _fine_. But cleanly. Cover the children's eyes. And may the Maker forgive us."

"He'll forgive us long before he forgives _them._ I'm sure of that." Anders reached into the Fade, and began the casting of a spell that would paralyse all the unconscious men. With luck, when Leliana's blade passed over their throats, they would feel nothing.

_-oOo-_


	20. Chapter 20

**_AN: I made it to Chapter 20! *dances* This is my first fic ever, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate the support, encouragement, reviews (approaching 100 now!) and alerts. It has come as news to me that I am capable of writing something that people enjoy, and your comments encourage me to continue. Much love to all of you. Karen xxx_**

_-oOo-_

Keili completed her prayers to Andraste, bowed reverently before the altar, and turned. The Templar, who had patiently waited until she was done, stepped forward. She smiled upon him, this guardian of her safety. She was temporarily filled with grace; feeling, for a short time at least, that she could win the fight against her own corruption.

"The Knight Commander summons you, mage." Mage. The word was snapped out with contempt, but it was no more than she deserved. She was doomed, damned in the eyes of the Maker. Only her service to Andraste provided solace.

She left the sanctuary of the chantry, followed by her guardian, and trod through the quiet halls, her soft shoes making no sound, the chill of the stone striking up through the thin soles. There was quiet whispering beyond one of the doorways she approached. There was no door, of course, privacy was a luxury the tainted did not deserve, and could not afford. The whispering stopped abruptly as she passed, heads raised anxiously to see who might have heard.

She continued on her way, past the First Enchanter's empty office, to the stairs. The Templar guarding them did not look at her. Instead he peered beyond her, and on the nod from her guardian, allowed her to pass into the Templar Quarters.

Closed doors protected the privacy of the guardians, for who deserved it more? Beyond these chambers, where the righteous rested, lay the quarters and office of Knight Commander Cullen. He looked up as she entered; the cold fire in his eyes recognised her corruption, her damnation, and he allowed her to serve, regardless. She was grateful.

"Sit." She did so. He folded his hands together on the desk, his gauntlets lying discarded to the side. She kept her eyes on his hands, not wishing to sully him. There was ink on his fingers. "What news?" he demanded.

"There are murmurings. The remaining Libertarians cause trouble, of course. They protest that their comrades could not _all_ have deserved their fate, that it is too much to believe. The Equitarians and Isolationists are disturbed by their lies, they chatter amongst themselves." She raised her eyes to his, apologetic that this was needful. "I would recommend a re-organisation of the Mages Quarters, a segregation of the factions, and an eating rota that separates them also. That way, any diminution of their numbers will cause a minimum of disruption."

The Knight Commander nodded in approval. "Agreed. Access to the Library and Training Areas will be similarly restricted. I will have a plan, and a rota, drawn up." He smiled thinly at her. "Proven Loyalists will retain unlimited movement for the moment, although under strict supervision, of course."

"Of course," she agreed freely. "If it may be permitted, it would be a relief if we, also, may be segregated for sleeping. As things stand, we are at constant risk from the carelessness of those who do not recognise our weakness, and corruption. My comrades live in fear that abominations may rip through from the Fade as they sleep."

Knight Commander Cullen frowned, displeased. "As they should, only their fear and our vigilance protect them from themselves. The risk from those who do not recognise Andraste's hand upon them is greater, I agree, but I cannot accede to your request. The Maker's work requires you to be in amongst them, that we may know who the troublemakers are. Those loyal to the Chantry's endeavours shall, therefore, be placed in each room."

Keili bent her head, submissively. The Maker's work was more important than the comfort of her, or her fellows. "As you say, Knight Commander."

"Very well. You are dismissed."

_-oOo-_

"So, how's life up at the Palace?"

"Um, not bad." In actual fact, coming back to the Alienage, to see Shianni, had felt somewhat strange. It was surprising how quickly you became accustomed to luxury. Dirt that Kallian had never seen before was suddenly, shockingly, apparent. Smells, that she hadn't really known existed, assailed her nostrils. Even the tankards, into which they had poured the ale she brought, seemed a little grimy.

She took a sip anyway, ashamed of being so finicky, and struggled for words to tell Shianni about her new life. About working for a woman, a queen, who had dismissed a footman from her service because the elven girls in the kitchen were afraid of him. About private training sessions with Leliana, in the training yard attached to the King's Own barracks, so the rest of the staff didn't twig that she was more than a maid. About the respect the King's Own guards accorded her, having seen her skill during practices. Shianni would have been able to put all this in words, if their situations were reversed, but Kallian had never been big on talk. "It's… different."

"No shit." Shianni was giving her that look, the one that had always said the same thing, ever since they were kids – _if I had a big enough shovel, maybe I could dig information out of you, cousin. _"You don't say."

Kallian shifted uncomfortably, giving her cousin a shamefaced grin. "You know I'm no good at this. Alright, it's… not what I expected. I only see nobles if I'm with the Queen, and that's… not a problem. Some of the shem servants can be stuck up gits, but they know if the King catches them, they'll be in trouble."

This was the reason it was so difficult to describe. There was an ordinary noble household of servants, with all the expected prejudices. There were all the usual noble visitors, with all their customary disdain. Then, there were her employers, their closest intimates, and their personal guard. This group were a world apart from the rest, and this was the environment she mainly lived in. In that world, she wasn't an elf; she was the Queen's bodyguard. They couldn't care less if she was blue and purple, and had tentacles, provided her knives were sharp, and her eyesight keen.

But more than that; they were _kind_. Cedric, the King's Own captain had trained with her on a day when Leliana was too busy. The Queen had potted up plants for Kalli's windowsill, with her own hands. Leliana and Anders had coaxed her into playing cards with them some evenings, laughing and joking with her as though she _hadn't_ pressed a dagger to the mage's throat. He had assured her that plenty of people had done far worse to him. He had her in stitches when he described how Oghren had chased him all over the Keep, with an axe, for freezing his ale. Only to find afterwards that the non-frozen sludge in the bottom of the barrel contained _all _the alcohol. According to Anders, Oghren had scraped the sludge into a jar, and smeared it on toast every morning for breakfast, much to the Commander's horror and disgust. She found these stories of the Wardens hilarious.

Some of this she managed to put over to Shianni during the evening's drinking, in fits and starts, and rusty sentences. And in turn, Shianni described the innovations planned for the Alienage, agreed between the King, the Arl and the Hahren. And after a couple of hours, the dirt looked the same as it always had, and she couldn't smell anything unusual. Although, when she had said her goodbyes, and left the house, she frowned at the Vhenadahl, vaguely convinced that it used to be more burnt than it now was.

_-oOo-_

A barracks designed for burly men and muscular women, which usually resounded to the screams of nightmares, now contained unruly children and resounded to the screams of those hit with a barrage of pillows, and the occasional crackle and spark of uncontrolled magic.

Two more children had been rescued, making seven so far. The nursemaid provided by the King had been replaced with a woman from the Collective, an apostate who was good with kids, and better at teaching them than Anders could ever be. More importantly, she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut.

The Commander was going to do her nut when she found out.

But what else could he do? Leave them to the tender mercies of some of the worst Templars in Thedas? Not bloody likely. Take them to the Circle Tower, and turn them over to Creepy Cullen? Yeah, right. Take them back to parents who hated and feared them, who would immediately hand them back to the Chantry?

He leant against the doorframe, watching the new nurse efficiently end the pillow fight, quench the sparks, and get the children into bed with a minimum of fuss.

This situation wasn't going to be resolved easily and, although Leliana had urged him to do so, Anders had not yet had the nerve to 'fess up to Alistair about their little side-trips into vigilantism. There was the King's chantry upbringing to consider, although in fairness he had never made any issue of it. Also, his idealised view of the Wardens; which Anders was _astonished_ had survived the rigours of the Blight. Between these two, it seemed unlikely that Alistair could be won over to the idea of killing Templars, and hiding mage-talented children in the Warden barracks. _Highly_ unlikely, in fact.

But even that paled next to the idea of explaining it to Warden Commander Leonie. Her fondness for children was not going to overcome her anger, when she discovered that one of her Wardens was going out of his way to get up the nose of the Chantry. And that he was hiding the evidence on Warden property.

Anders rubbed his nose despairingly, as he turned away from the children, still giggling and snuffling in their bunks. As he went to collect his belongings and return to his quarters at the Royal Palace, he turned the available options over in his mind, for the umpteenth time, and came to the reluctant conclusion that he was up shit creek without a paddle. _Oh well, at least I'm in familiar territory._

_-oOo-_

When the ship slowly pulled out of the harbour, Philippe was surprised at how relieved he felt, to be returning to Denerim. He had never much liked Val Royeaux, but hadn't previously shared Maddy's level of antipathy. However, after only a few days at Alistair's laid-back Court, Celene's had stifled him with its posturing, affected, sneering crowd of sycophants.

Celene's agents had, understandably, found no trace of the bard, Moreau. The Crow Master had done a professional job of cleaning up any genuine evidence, and Zevran had scooped up the false evidence. Only Philippe's high rank prevented them from displaying their irritation with him, for sending them on a wild goose chase. He had professed innocent astonishment, and had assured them that the prisoners would be further interrogated, to provide more accurate information. He allowed them the luxury of sneering at Ferelden torturers, who couldn't get reliable information from a prisoner. He joined them in lamenting the incompetence of such barbarians. Upon returning to his apartment, he had immediately instructed his valet to begin packing, and had wasted no time in booking his passage.

He stood at the rail, the wind taking liberties with his hair, blowing the bits that escaped his ponytail into his mouth. As he extracted these, and futilely attempted to smooth them back, another figure joined him at the rail. A shorter, slighter man; his blond hair swept aside by the wind to expose a sinuous tattoo, and a pointed ear.

Well, this was surprising. "How delightful to see you again, _mon ami_. Did the myriad attractions of Alistair's court prove irresistibly alluring, after all?" Once this damnable elf began flirting in earnest, Philippe knew he would be tongue-tied as a boy, so he was quick to get in the first thrust, while he still could. Not that it was going to make any difference; he knew a philanderer when he saw one. _Never again_.

"It's very strange; I suddenly feel an overwhelming desire for the aroma of mud, and dogs, and the unforgettable flavour of three-day-old stew." Zevran turned with that cryptic, indecipherable smile; amber eyes running over him in a way that made Philippe feel naked. "But, one never knows. Maybe I shall be fortunate enough to acquire, in Ferelden, something which smells, and tastes, as good as it looks."

"That would be fortunate, indeed. But quite unlikely, I feel."

"Stranger things have happened, _il mio principe_."

_-oOo-_

Alistair woke suddenly, from the deepest sleep. The room was stifling, the sheet tangled around his hips, damp with sweat. It had been an unseasonably hot day, and the night was proving even more oppressive. He turned over, attempting to extricate himself from the moist sheet, and realised he was alone. Maddy was not in bed.

He cursed softly, shifting to the edge of the bed, and swinging his legs to the floor. She may be safely in the sitting room, unable to sleep, but he would have to check. The attack on her two weeks ago was still too fresh in his mind to allow for any complacency.

He climbed into a pair of loose trousers, and made for the bedchamber door. Upon inspection, the adjacent sitting room, as well as being no cooler than the bedchamber, was empty. A quick check of the Queen's chamber also bore no fruit.

He padded out into the corridor, causing the single guard, leaning against the wall, to jerk quickly upright. "Is there some way I can serve you, Your Majesty?"

"Did you see where the Queen went?"

"Yes, sire. She headed down to the garden, and Leofric went with her. She said she needed fresh air, sire."

Alistair nodded, somewhat relieved. If one of the two King's Own stationed at their door had accompanied her, then Maddy would be safe at least. However, he was now wide awake, and the prospect of cooling down sounded appealing. He set off towards the stairs, regardless of his bare feet and chest, the guard falling in behind him.

He crossed the dim hall; the tiles cool beneath his feet, and passed into Maddy's orangery. A multitude of exotic fragrances assaulted him, heightened by the humid air. Cooler air flowed from the open door, where Leofric lounged against the doorpost. The guard turned quickly at the sound of their approach, reaching for his sword. "Oh, Your Majesty, I apologise, I didn't expect…" He removed his hand from his sword hilt, shamefaced.

Alistair frowned in concern. "Aren't you meant to be with the Queen?"

Leofric looked uncomfortable. "Yes, sire. But she insisted that I stay here. She said she wasn't going far, and definitely not out of earshot."

"I see." The King turned to his own shadow. "Stay here, both of you. I'll find my wife." If she had left her guard behind, there was no saying what she was up to. She wouldn't thank him for bringing guards to gawk at her, if that was so.

"Er, if you're sure, sire. We'll come if you call." Alistair nodded and stepped into the garden, the flagged path rough beneath his feet.

The relief from the heat was instantaneous. Even the most oppressive Ferelden summer night was mild, once you were out in it, and the sweat immediately began to dry on his skin. Alistair sniffed the familiar air, reminded of so many nights during the Blight, when they had left their stuffy tents packed up, and set their bedrolls out on the grass.

He stepped off the path, and onto the lawn; the turf laid after the wedding had now settled and rooted. Most of the beds were still empty, or contained small plants, not yet established. Even in the dim light provided by the lamps in the orangery behind him, it was possible to see the only obvious landmark, the tall outline of the tree planted by the Dalish, and beneath it in the grass, a dark shape. His lips quirked into a grin, reminded of Philippe's advice on how to find Maddy if she went missing. It would appear to have some basis in fact.

As Alistair set off across the cool, springy lawn, the horizon lit up and thunder rolled in the distance, presaging the possibility of blessed relief from the humidity. Under the canopy of, improbably mature leaves, it was darker. He could only just make out where Maddy lay, curled up in a thin nighty, fast asleep. He crouched at her side and stroked her face, and she murmured incoherently. He saw her clearly as light erupted above the clouds. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time.

"Maddy, wake up. There's a storm coming." He scooped her up in his arms, and she stirred, winding her arms around his neck. She mumbled again, and pressed her lips against his throat. She half-opened her eyes, and smiled at him, still drowsy. "_Mon cher_," she murmured, tilting her head up to be kissed. He obliged, softly at first, and more fiercely as she responded, the wisps of sleep falling away from her. Her hands combed up into his hair, pulling him closer, so that they could kiss more deeply. Thunder rolled again, louder.

He could feel the sweet warmth of her body through the thin fabric and his own reaction to it. It was all heightened by the heavy summer night, the oncoming storm, the sense of being utterly alone with his woman. He shifted her weight, holding her up with one hand, while the other ran up her thigh, pushing aside her nightdress, gliding over her hip to grip her rounded bottom. Her breathing was as harsh as his, both of them taken unawares by the unexpected passion of this tryst.

She wriggled around; moving until she could wrap her legs around him, her nighty now rucked up around her waist. She wore nothing beneath it, and he could feel her heat through his trousers. It inflamed him further, and he pressed against her; pursuing that heat and pressure, while they fought for the right to each other's throats.

Alistair took the extra few steps required to back her against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark providing enough support to free up his hand again. The sky lit up bright as he clumsily pushed down his trousers, the thunder crash almost overhead. Maddy's mouth was against his throat, scraping her teeth over the tendon, her tongue roaming up to his earlobe, as the first drops of rain pattered on the leaves above. Her heat against him was too enticing with no cloth between them. He lowered her carefully onto him, and only once he felt her tight heat did he drive into her. Her legs tightened around his hips, encouraging him. She moaned, and he felt, rather than heard, the noise against his ear, as lightning bathed the world in an eerie glow, and thunder boomed above them. There was a sudden deluge, the canopy of leaves only partially protecting them, their skin becoming damp and slippery, her nightdress transparent, clinging to her breasts. He found his rhythm, and she met him with an eagerness that inflamed him more. Slick, wet heat surrounded him; slick, wet skin was in his hands.

Maddy whimpered as he lifted her to shift the angle, and she cried out as he thrust back in, seeking, and finding, the ridge inside her that drove her wild. They were both groaning, their voices lost, as the sky was ripped again with light and percussion, all of nature partaking of their fierce coupling. Her fingers dug hard into his back, his into her bottom, and he plunged into her again, and again. He felt her muscles spasm as she tightened around him, her head buried in his shoulder, her cries muffled against his wet throat.

As his own burning need, and tension, crested, as his thigh muscles quivered, and his hips surged forward, a tiny fragment of strange memory drifted through his mind – '_one offers what one has, and what one is, in return'_. It dissolved, lost in overwhelming sensation. He bucked against her, swelling and jerking, crying out in wild, animalistic release, raindrops falling into his mouth as he flung back his head. The _Vhen'alath_ sheltered them from the raging storm, and the taste of lightning, of ozone, on Alistair's tongue, was almost like wild, Dalish, magic.

_-oOo-_


	21. Chapter 21

_-oOo-_

Pounce was not a happy cat.

The new accommodations were warm and comfy. The humans here fed him well. The grounds contained an assortment of wildlife to play with. His own personal human was available, to provide all the attention he so richly deserved.

But that other cat was a problem.

Not the lady cat. _She_ was no trouble at all.

The other one.

The cat who had just taken strong exception to Pounce's presence, in what he clearly perceived to be _his _garden.

The one who now had him treed, and was making some of the most antagonistic noises any cat could make. Noises that basically said _if I rip you into tiny pieces, then you won't be ruffling my fur anymore._

He looked easily big enough to do it, too.

There was only one thing for it. There was only one tactic that had never, ever, failed. Pounce wailed for his human to come rescue him.

_-oOo-_

"Andraste's tits!" Anders nearly fell out of the hammock he'd been snoozing in. The unearthly noise passed through his ears, and shot directly to his feet. He was up, and running, before he was technically even awake.

Five minutes later he was stalking through the garden, carrying a large, paralysed, black and white cat; a vicious-looking beast, with notched ears, and a flat-eyed glare. Pounce trotted along beside him, pressing against his leg, and purring loudly. Anders refreshed the paralyse spell, just to be on the safe side. "Pooor Pounce," he cooed, "did that narsty Pepe fwighten you?" The purring increased in volume.

He walked briskly into the orangery, seeking the owner of the feline terror. Sounds of careful gardening emanated from the screened area; the clink of secateurs being placed on a table, the scrape of a ceramic pot.

"Maddy! This furry maniac of yours just tried to-"

His words chopped off short as he passed the screen. The Queen was bent over the worktable, her hands patting down the soil surrounding a sickly-looking plant with spiky leaves, her brow furrowed with concentration. Anders swallowed heavily, slowly putting down the suddenly irrelevant cat. Pounce gave it a worried look, and mewed plaintively.

She looked up from her work, smiling at him. "Sorry, Anders, what was that? Oh, Pepe. What's he done now?"

His troubled eyes met hers. "I think we have more important problems, actually."

_-oOo-_

"Try spinning on the ball of your foot like… so." Leliana demonstrated the balletic move, while Kallian watched carefully. "You'll find your balance is better for your next attack." The elf tried a few practice spins. Leliana noted the faults, corrected them, and let her try some more.

Standing idle, while the spin was repeatedly practiced, Leliana found her mind wandering back to chew over her guilt for the umpteenth time. Ever since her dagger had sliced across the throats of those four Templars, she had been unsettled, unable to capture her former serenity. She was thankful only that, at her insistence, they had found a more subtle method to separate the subsequent Chantry guardians from the poor mites in their so-called care, one that did not reveal the identities of the rescuers. There had been no more cold-blooded murder since that awful night in the inn, but their blood remained on her hands.

Kallian stopped her practice, and looked at her expectantly. Leliana attempted to set aside her introspection, and stepped up to spar. The elf was, in many ways, better at this than she was. Leliana only used knives when a fight was so close-packed that even a trained melee archer would struggle. There were tricks, picked up from Zev during the Blight, which she had been able to pass along, but the girl really needed a stronger trainer. After a couple of false starts, the two women fell into a well known set of practice moves, their bodies and blades moving in graceful patterns, freeing up her mind.

Leliana didn't regret removing the children from Chantry care, at all. Whatever the Chant may say, she was quite, quite sure that the Maker would not approve of treating children so. But that was no excuse for murdering helpless men, bound and gagged. No excuse at all. She must bear that burden herself, and seek her own expiation for it. So, every day, she went to the palace chantry, and in the silence, among the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, she prayed to the Maker for guidance.

And what should they do with all those children? They couldn't stay in the Warden compound forever. The only sensible solution, as far as she could see, was to confide in Alistair, but Anders seemed really reluctant to do so. Surely the King needed to know that the Chantry had been mistreating children. He was the only person with the authority to do anything about it. If Anders didn't get his act together soon, she would have to mix up something to stiffen his spine.

_-oOo-_

"My trick, I think." Philippe laid his cards on the table, while Zev clapped approvingly.

"Well played, _il mio amico_, very well played." The assassin grinned at him, a twinkle in his amber eyes. "And now for your reward; ask your question."

Philippe considered him over the rim of his wine glass. They had been playing for some time, and had grown weary of playing for silver. And so, they had agreed to play for knowledge. The questions had been kept fairly innocuous so far, but there was _something _he really wanted to know about this inscrutable elf. "What do you have against Alistair?"

The twinkle vanished, and although the smile remained, it contained no humour. "Oh? I had no idea we were raising the stakes. Are you sure you wish to play so high?"

Philippe sighed, knowing he would regret this the next time he lost. But he was bringing this extremely dangerous man into his brother-in-law's home, and he needed to know the level of animosity involved. "The question stands. Pay and play."

Zevran twirled his own glass, his face smooth, all expression hidden. There was a short silence, broken only by the creak of timbers around them, as the ship cut through the water. Zevran spoke slowly, appearing to pick his words quite carefully. "Someone died. There was a way to prevent it, but only Alistair held that power. He chose not to."

"I see." The short explanation opened up a host of new questions, but to probe further would be a massive invasion of privacy. "Thank you."

Zevran smiled again, more warmly. "Do not worry, _il mio principe_. If I was going to take vengeance on your sister's husband, I would have done so a long time ago. Now," he picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle expertly, "let us see who _signora di fortuna_ favours, eh? The stakes are high, and my luck has always been _fantastico._"

_-oOo-_

"Your Eminence, please, take a seat."

Grand Cleric Leanna took the proffered chair, smoothing her robes around her. The two Templars who accompanied her took up positions next to the door. Arl Eamon regarded them disapprovingly, as he took his own seat behind his desk. Bringing her guards into his office, rather than stationing them outside, showed a lack of trust in the King's Chancellor that bordered on rudeness. He turned his gaze upon the woman before him, and offered her a polite smile. "You wished to see me, Your Eminence? "

The Grand Cleric pursed her lips. "Actually, I asked to see the King. His Chamberlain took it upon himself to inform _you_ of my arrival instead."

"Ah yes, please accept my apologies if we have caused any offence. All requests for an audience with King Alistair are now channelled through me. If the matter requires it, I will bring the subject to his attention, or arrange an audience." This arrangement had been put in place after the new Queen had tempestuously insisted that she would not allow her husband to be run ragged. A list of exceptions had been drawn up; old friends, and people that Alistair trusted to only request to see him if it was genuinely urgent. The Grand Cleric's name was not on this list.

"I see." Her tone made it clear that such a policy could not possibly have been designed with _her_ in mind.

Eamon maintained his calm demeanour. "So, what is it that you wished to discuss?

"Someone has been interfering in the sacred duties of my Templars." The Grand Cleric's eyes lit up with angry zeal. "Three of our brethren have been found dead on the Pilgrim's Path, four more here in Denerim itself. _Seven_ Templars dead, and those they were bringing to the Circle Tower spirited away by the ungodly. Two more interrupted in their duties, and deprived of their charges. I _demand_ that the King takes action against this outrage!"

The Arl folded his hands on the desk, as the Grand Cleric came to the end of her tirade. "This is a serious matter indeed. You say two survived? What did their report say?"

"That they were distracted, and stunned, by what appeared to be a physical trap. By the time they recovered their wits, they had been paralysed, and hoods were thrown over their heads from behind. They did not have any opportunity to act, or to see their attackers. It is clear from this, however, that at least one must have been an abomination in the eyes of the Maker: an apostate, a maleficar."

Eamon frowned, considering what he had heard. "You say their charges were taken? Were these runaways from the Tower that they had hunted down?"

The Grand Cleric's face was rigid with distaste. "No, they were escorting those found to carry the curse of magic, to their confinement at the Circle Tower."

"I see." As it was general knowledge that his own son lived at the Circle Tower, Eamon found her choice of words impolitic, but she was known to be an austere woman, with a rigid view of mages. There was no advantage to be gained from quarrelling over mere words. "And have any of these children been recovered?"

She frowned. "I do not believe so. It is not known exactly how many were in the charge of those who died on the road. The ones killed here in the city had been sent to acquire three, and the innkeeper confirms that they had three with them when they took their room. Two more were with those of our brethren who were incapacitated rather than killed. None of those five have been found." Her voice throbbed with fervour. "Someone is creating a nest of apostasy, and it must be rooted out."

Eamon began to see what Alistair had against this woman, but the fact remained that seven murdered Templars was a serious matter. He kept his voice calm and soothing, unwilling to feed her vehemence. "Thank you for informing me of this, Your Eminence. If you will send a runner with copies of the reports you received, then I will bring the matter to King Alistair's attention. You can be sure that we will treat such an attack against the Chantry with the utmost seriousness."

_-oOo-_

"My point, I think."

"Ah, but will it be enough?"

We shall see, _mon ami_. I call."

The assassin spread his cards on the table with a dexterous flick of the wrist, and sat back, smiling in triumph. "What can I say? S_ignora di fortuna _always turns her gaze on me when I need her most."

"So it would seem." The deep blue eyes, across the table from Zev, narrowed in amusement. "Very well, do your worst."

Zev feigned shock. "My worst? No, no, _mio uno bello_, for you I would do only my best." The assurance dripped with promise. "This brings me to my question. Why do you deny yourself the pleasures I offer? You obviously desire me, as I do you. This journey could be so much more enjoyable, for both of us."

The prince sipped his wine thoughtfully, and finally shook his head. "You won't like the answer."

"Try me."

"Very well." There was no flirtation in the handsome face, no humour in the blue eyes. "I do not like philanderers." Philippe pronounced the word with obvious distaste. "I take no pleasure in casual liaisons. I had my fill of that at the Imperial Court, when I was too young to know better. Finding someone desirable is no longer enough for me. I require trust, and affection."

"Ah, in short, you seek love?"

"Love is the ultimate expression of trust and affection, and is always to be hoped for, but no. I do not expect quite so much. But I will give myself to no man, unless he offers me more than his body. Is that clear enough for you?" Philippe's gaze did not waver in making these statements, he showed no embarrassment. He displayed a steadfast nature quite at odds with his urbane, polished, faintly amused, mask. Zevran found him more alluring than ever, but his personal rules must be kept.

"Are you made uncomfortable by my advances, then? I will stop, if you wish."

The mask began to slide back into its accustomed place, as Philippe smiled and shook his head. "I enjoy an elegant flirtation, and you are an expert. Provided we know where we stand, then all is well."

"Glad I am to hear it. Just one point, before we play the next hand, _il mio principe_. Someone who indulges in casual liaisons is not necessarily a philanderer. There are those, and I count myself amongst them, who will not toy with the hearts of those who require fidelity."

Philippe nodded politely. "I shall remember that. Now, it is my turn to deal, I believe? Perhaps we should change the stake again. Would you care to retreat to the safety of hard coin for the rest of the evening?"

_-oOo-_

Alistair stared at the mage in utter disbelief. Anders had, with Maddy in tow, located him on the practice field and dragged him back to the privacy of the Royal Quarters, assuring him that yes, it was urgent, and no, it wouldn't wait.

He turned his gaze to his wife; she sat in a chair with her legs pulled up, her arms protectively around her knees. She looked just as bewildered as he felt. He turned back to Anders, who was watching them both with a very worried frown.

"So, you're saying that Maddy is a _mage_? That's ridiculous. I'm Templar-trained, I'd know."

"Probably only if you were actually present when she was using magic. A Templar who is using his skills every day gets better, just like the rest of us, and an active Templar can sense magic very easily. I'm not sure how honed your skills are, anymore."

Alistair was shaking his head, still not seeing it. "But _you'd_ know. You're one of the most highly-trained mages I've ever met, and you're around her all the time. How could you only just have noticed?"

Anders grimaced, considering it. "Look, I'm not exactly sure what's going on here yet. But it's not ordinary magic. Not Circle magic. Even when I walked in on her, I could only sense that magic was happening, not what kind it was." He spread his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, I'll know more if she'll let me test her."

Alistair glanced at his wife. She had not moved, or looked up from the spot on the floor she was staring at. "Maddy?" he probed, gently.

She raised her eyes slowly to his, looking a little blank. "Hm? Oh," she shrugged, "I'll do whatever you want. But, I can't have magic. I'd know, wouldn't I?" There was fear in her voice, and he couldn't blame her.

"Well, I would have thought so," he said, cocking a questioning eyebrow at Anders.

The mage patiently reiterated what he has said before. "I won't know anything until we do some tests."

_-oOo-_

_To Arlessa Leonie, Warden Commander of Ferelden, _

_Greetings_

_I apologise for being unable to receive you when you called. I was in one of the outlying districts of the city, examining some of the rebuilding work, and by the time I received a message to say you wished to see me, it was too late. _

_I enclose a full report on the current situation in Amarathine City. The reconstruction continues slowly, priority being given to the docks and warehouses required to get trade flowing as quickly as possible. Funds are, as ever, an issue, and any assistance you can provide would be welcomed._

_Regarding the question you asked, in the note you left for me – I have experienced no problems with the new Revered Mother or her sisters. Compared to the old Revered Mother, with her incessant demands for tithes, and uncaring attitude, Revered Mother Clara is a pleasure to work with. There is certainly a great deal of Templar activity, both in the city, and in the farmlands. My tenants find it comforting to be so carefully guarded against the threat of magic. Quite apart from a, perfectly understandable, fear of apostates and maleficarum, they also know what a devastating effect fire and frost magics may have upon their crops. Although, with so much of the land still blighted and despoiled from the recent darkspawn attacks, I regret to say that I do not think our yields will be high._

_I remain yours_

_Bann Eddelbrek of Amaranthine_

_-oOo-_

Alistair paced restlessly around the sitting room while Anders and Maddy were closeted in the Queen's Chamber. The tests had been begun in here, but the mage had declared that the presence of a human pendulum was too distracting, and had ushered the Queen into the other room.

He just couldn't grasp this. People didn't just turn out to be mages as adults, did they? It came out when they were children, even if they then hid it. A worm of doubt wriggled into Alistair's mind. Had Maddy been deceiving him, and everyone else, all this time? Was she an apostate? It just didn't seem possible.

Anders stuck his head out of the door. "Alistair, can you get someone to bring us a plant? The one Maddy was working on earlier. It's on her table in the orangery." He disappeared again.

The King gave the order to one of the guards outside, and resumed pacing.

What if it was true? What if she was a mage? The consequences would be horrendous. _Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him. _It had been dinned into his ears during his Templar training, and was still the loudest bugle call of the Chantry. Even more so, in fact, since Leanna's tenure began. His blood ran cold at the idea of turning his wife over to her, or to Cullen. Perhaps he could speak directly to Irving? But even then – should he give his wife, his Queen, into the hands of the Circle? But wasn't that what people did with their children every day? Wasn't it what Eamon had been forced to do with Connor? Was Maddy at risk of becoming an abomination? Was this his duty? And, what about Empress Celene? How would she react, if Ferelden declared their Orlesian-born Queen to be a mage, and locked her away to be trained? His mind shied away from the idea of locking Maddy away in the Circle Tower, and his thoughts spiralled back through earlier questions while he paced, and paced.

The plant arrived, and vanished into the bedchamber. More waiting, more worrying.

Anders finally emerged alone, looking strained.

Alistair practically pounced on him. "Well?"

The mage helped himself to the King's ale before responding, slugging the tankard down in a single draft, throat working. Thus refreshed, he wiped his mouth, and looked at the anxious man before him. "She's… not a mage. Not in the strictest sense of the word." Alistair let all his breath out in one relieved gasp, and Anders held his hand up, palm out. "Wait, I'm not finished. She is not a mage, in that she cannot cast even the simplest spell. But…" the mage stopped, trying to find the right words.

"She's a latent?" prompted Alistair. A latent would be alright. Lots of people were latent.

Anders shook his head. "Not a latent, no. This is going to sound odd, but she _can_ do magic. Not normal magic, nothing than would ever show up in any mage test. What she does… I've never seen anything like it. She didn't even know it wasn't normal, didn't know it was magic, and I'm not surprised."

Alistair felt like he was going to explode from the tension. "For the Maker's sake, Anders, spit it out. Is my wife a mage, or not?"

The mage looked genuinely frustrated, but did his best to explain. "As far as I can tell, she cannot cast a single spell from any of the known schools of magic. But, she can… _affect_ plants, and when she is doing so, it feels like magic to me. But not a kind I recognise."

Alistair sat down heavily, unsure if he should be relieved or worried. "Plants? Only plants?" He wasn't sure whether Chantry rules on magic even applied unless you could affect _people_.

"Yep, only plants, so far. I can't be absolutely sure whether she can do anything else. It's just too different for me to have any idea what her limits are."

He tried to gather his thoughts. "What do you mean by _affect_ them?"

Anders shrugged. "She can heal their diseases, rejuvenate them when they wilt, help them grow faster, stuff like that. Some of the results are fast; some seem to take much longer than my healing would. I have no idea whether she can also harm them; she's never tried, and point-blank refused to attempt it when I asked her.

"Anders, what does all this mean? Will she have to go to the Circle?" Alistair's voice broke on the question, despite his best efforts.

Anders looked horrified. "Maker, no. No. You can't do that to her. You won't, will you?"

Alistair ran his hands through his hair despairingly. "It's the law. If she has magic, then she has to be trained, or she risks ripping the Fade."

The Warden mage took a few quick steps towards where his King sat, and loomed over him, looking suddenly angry. "Trained? They won't train her, Alistair. Even _before_ the lunatics took over the asylum, Greagoir would never have allowed it, even _Irving _won't allow it."

His face was grim, and twisted with bitterness, at this regime he had railed against his entire life. "No, she's considered too old to learn, too set in her ways to accept the indoctrination, to accept the picture of herself as a freak, cursed by the Maker. And anyway, she can't learn what they teach, her magic's too different." Anders' expression softened in the face of Alistair's obvious distress. "I'm sorry, Alistair. You really, _really_ shouldn't hand your wife over to them. They will see her as a hedge-mage, and therefore the Templars will kill her. At best, they will make her Tranquil to avoid a political incident, because of who she is."

"Oh, Maker." Alistair didn't know what to say. The political complications had all tangled up in his mind with the personal ones, and he couldn't see a way through them. "What am I going to do? She's the Queen. If she's found to be a mage, it could tear the country apart. The Chantry will say I've been controlled by a Blood Mage."

Anders seated himself in an adjacent chair, leaning towards the King, his voice soothing and persuasive. "Listen, trust me, she couldn't do that, even if she wanted to. As I said, she has no ability with _any _of the schools of magic, and _only _seems to be able to affect plants with the magic she_ has_. Obviously, I can't test whether she has ability in Blood Magic, because I don't know any, but it's only used as an enhancement of existing magic. Even if she _did_ turn out to be a natural at learning Blood, she could only use it to power the magic she has. What's she going to do, mind-control a parsnip?"

Despite the desperate situation, Alistair's mouth turned up slightly at that image. "But, isn't she in danger of ripping the Fade? I saw what happened with Connor at Redcliffe. I can't risk that here."

Anders shook his head. "No more than the rest of us, I'd say. She's apparently been using this almost her entire life. Didn't have any idea it wasn't normal. Maddy said that she got annoyed with her gardeners in Ghislain – thought they were being incompetent, or lazy, because they didn't do as good a job as she did. She's not a raw talent, like a child would be. She's more like the Dalish; an accomplished user of a type of magic that is utterly different from Circle magic. Much more different than the Dalish in fact, they at least learn a lot of the same spells. She can be a bit hit-and-miss, because she's not been taught discipline – sometimes she can't cast on demand, and sometimes she casts without realising it - but I can teach that."

Alistair still wasn't seeing how this helped. "That isn't going to make any difference to the Chantry. They treat Dalish mages as apostates if they can get their hands on them."

"_Sod_ the Chantry. I know you trained as a Templar, but you're _not_ one. You've worked with mages; you _know_ we aren't all Tevinter megalomaniacs. Maddy won't be using magic to rule anyone. Even if she could, do you really think she would?"

Alistair let his breath out, relaxing slightly, knowing the mage was right about that at least. But there was still one, big problem. "I'm the _King_, Anders. I can't break the law."

Anders smirked at him, with an edge of triumph. "Oh? That would be why you handed those kiddies over to the Chantry, right? I remember it well. The instant the Commander told you about what had happened, you arrested the Wardens for murdering Templars, and you packed the children off to the Circle, leaving your royal conscience crystal clear."

Alistair was starting to feel pressured by all this heavy persuasion. Despite really wanting it all to be true, he couldn't stop himself from pushing back. "I have to say, it's hardly surprising to see you take this attitude. You chose apostasy yourself. Doesn't that make your arguments a little biased?"

Anders shrugged. "Absolutely. My arguments are biased, the Chantry's arguments are biased, and every man in the street's arguments are biased. This is too emotive a subject for there to be one correct answer. Look, in view of the fact that she's the Queen, and that the political circumstances complicate things, I'll admit that if she had_ any_ ability with Circle magic, then I would be conflicted about this. But she doesn't. I don't think that what she does should come under Chantry jurisdiction; I don't think it _does_ come under their jurisdiction. And, most importantly, I don't think her magic has any political applications, at all. If the Grand Cleric is too hidebound to be able to make those kinds of distinctions, why should you allow them to decide Maddy's fate?"

He stood up, shaking out his robes, and untangling his cat from Claudia, where they were sleeping together on the sofa. "I don't think you can decide right now. But what you _can_ do is go in there, and comfort your wife. She wouldn't come out with me, because she was afraid of facing you. And, whatever else you may be undecided about, I'm pretty certain _that_ isn't something you want."

_-oOo-_


	22. Chapter 22

_-oOo-_

Alistair knocked gently on the door before opening it; for the first time, he was hesitant about walking in on his wife. He nervously popped his head round the door, and then allowed the rest of him to follow. She sat in a chair by the window, looking out over the gardens. She was very upright, and her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. She looked very small, and forlorn, and his heart ached for her.

He tried to speak, and failed. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Maddy?"

She didn't turn to look at him. Her lips tightened, and he saw her throat working before she spoke. "Well, _mon_ _mari_. When do I leave?" Her voice broke on the last word, but she gave no other sign.

He swallowed a sudden obstruction in his throat, and moved over to stand beside her chair. She still stared blindly out the window; this close, he could see the tears trailing down her face. She made no move to stop them.

"You don't." He hadn't decided before, but in that moment he couldn't, _couldn't_ bear to hand her over, to be killed, or stripped of who she was. Anders was right, _sod_ the Chantry. He touched her hair gently. "You're staying here, with me. We'll work this out."

Her hands gripped tighter, and the tears poured faster, but her composure was unyielding. "We can't. You're the King. You can't make war on the Chantry."

He knelt beside her chair, separating her hands so he could hold them. He could feel the rigidity in her, the way she was holding herself together. "Maddy, look at me." She reluctantly turned her tear-stained face to him, fresh tears making new trails all the time, green eyes full of heartbreak and misery. "I've no intention of making war on the Chantry, but I'm not handing you over to them either. They'll_ kill_ you, and for what? Healing plants?" He shook his head vehemently, suddenly sure. "If they want you, they'll have to go through me first. But it shouldn't come to that. Try not to do… what you do, in front of Templars, or mages, and there's no need for them to ever know."

A shred of hope came into her eyes, and a tremulous smile curved her lips. But then she shook her head slightly, the hope fading. "An apostate Queen, Alistair; you _know_ what that means. If they find out, they'll depose you. I won't see you and Ferelden destroyed, not because of me."

The more she protested, the stronger his resolve became. She was _not _going to be a sacrificial lamb for him, and for Ferelden. _I did that once, and it is _not_ going to happen again. Not ever. _He'd made the decisions that killed Melissa; he _would not_ make the one that killed Maddy. He released her hands, and took her chin between finger and thumb, gently wiping her tears with the other hand. "Now, you listen to me. I've made my decision. You are my wife, and I won't let you do this. Anders assures me that your magic is nothing like Circle magic, and you are in no more danger of ripping the Fade than he is. You know I'm not satisfied with how the Chantry is behaving at the moment, even towards ordinary mages. I _will not_ see you in their hands. Is that understood?"

She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and fearful, and then her control suddenly snapped. She began to sob, noisily, helplessly. He folded her in his arms, and she clung to him like a frightened little girl.

_-oOo-_

Alistair stayed with Maddy until she calmed down, soothed by his repeated assurances. He left her curled on the bed, with Claudia providing purring comfort, and asked Kallian to instruct the kitchens to brew a composer for her. That would keep her calm until he could return. Having made his decision, he needed to talk to Anders again, about how best to protect her from scrutiny.

He pattered down the stairs to the hall and hailed his Chamberlain. "Can you find Anders for me please, Bertram?"

The stately Chamberlain bowed. "I believe that Warden Enchanter Anders has gone down to the Grey Warden compound, sire. I shall send a runner to summon him."

Alistair hid a grin; Bertram was a stickler for formality, and had struggled with how to address a member of the household who was both Court Enchanter and Grey Warden. Warden Enchanter had been his final compromise. "No, don't bother; I'll go down there myself. I could do with stretching my legs; I've been cooped up here too long."

"As you wish, sire. If you have a moment, Arl Eamon was asking after you. I told him you were closeted with the Queen."

Damn, the last thing he needed right now was to be sidetracked by whatever Eamon had on his mind. "Very well; I'll see him when I get back."

"Very good, sire."

Unfortunately, the Arl must have heard his voice, because he appeared from his office while the guard were still mustering. Alistair inwardly cursed the need for a large guard in order to set foot outside the palace grounds, and turned to his Chancellor with the best smile he could muster. "Eamon, I understand you needed me? I'll be back shortly, we can talk then."

"If you permit, Your Majesty, the matter is quite urgent." Eamon was always rigidly proper in front of the servants, but Alistair recognised the subtext. If they were in private, he would be told his plans could wait. "Can your errand possibly wait a few minutes?"

_No, but I can't tell you that, or you'll wonder what I'm doing_. "Certainly Eamon, but be quick, please." He strode into his Chancellor's office, and waited impatiently while Eamon shut the door and seated himself.

"Will you not sit, Alistair?"

He perched on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. "I'm not staying long. What's so urgent?"

The Arl seemed to take an unconscionable amount of time shuffling through papers to find what he was looking for. Only then did he speak. "The Grand Cleric called to see you. She was not pleased to find that your new admissions policy excluded her."

"You called me in here, to tell me that the old bat was upset because she couldn't see me?"

"Alistair, I accept that she was a somewhat… unfortunate choice for Head of the Chantry, but you really should show a little more respect than that. And no, that's not why I asked to see you. She's brought some rather disturbing news. It seems that someone has been murdering Templars."

_They found the bodies on the road to Amaranthine then. _He tried to keep his knowledge out of his face. "Really? Actual murder, or bandit attack?"

Eamon handed him the report from the Chantry. "Bandits don't leave four Templars tied up in an inn with their throats cut."

"_What?_" He hastily skimmed down the sheets, absorbing the details of the three incidents. Three dead on the road which he knew about, four murdered in an inn in Denerim, and two more incapacitated and left alive, also local. It was the common factor that made him go cold. "And in each case, the children were taken, and haven't been seen since?" _He wouldn't, would he? No, there must be someone else doing this._

"That is what the Grand Cleric says, although she is uncertain whether the Templars on the Pilgrim's Path had young mages in their care or not." _Two of them, although 'in their care' is stretching it. _

Alistair was starting to get heartily sick of hearing and thinking about the Chantry today, and his response was correspondingly petulant. "What does she want us to do, Eamon? If the Chantry's personal army can't look after themselves, why is that the Crown's problem?"

The Arl's expression seemed designed to make him feel ten years old again, kicking the desk while being dressed down for some misdemeanour. Alistair scowled and set his jaw. _Those days are gone._ "Alistair, I know your time in the Monastery created some personal prejudices, but I need you to set them aside. This is a serious matter, and if we are not seen to take action, then it will look bad for us. There is a Landsmeet soon. I in fact the Banns are asking why it has not happened already; the ones who live furthest away cannot return home until after it is held. The Grand Cleric will, undoubtedly, bring this up at the Landsmeet and call for action."

Alistair's scowl deepened. "I don't want to hold the Landsmeet until Philippe returns."

At the mention of Philippe, Eamon's expression grew even more disapproving. "You don't need the Landsmeet to oversee a case of High Treason. You have the right to make that judgement for yourself. And I was never happy that you sent an Orlesian Prince to look into this matter. What if he's complicit?"

Alistair gazed at him in total incomprehension. "_What_? Maker's breath, Eamon, do you trust _anyone_? Philippe loves Maddy totally; if you can't see that…" Words failed him.

Eamon got up from his chair and took a hasty turn around the room, obviously agitated. "Alistair, the Bannorn is muttering about the company you are keeping. You made an Orlesian Grey Warden the Arlessa of Amaranthine. You've appointed an Orlesian bard as one advisor, an apostate Grey Warden as another. You've married an Orlesian, which in itself was a good political move, but stacked up with the rest… And I hear that you also offered an Orlesian Prince a home here in the palace for as long as he wishes. Do you not see what's happening?" He turned to his former ward. "They are saying that you surround yourself with Wardens and Orlesians, who will lead you away from the needs of Ferelden. You need to put some distance between yourself and these people."

A cold anger reared up in Alistair's gut, twisting and writhing. It felt like it may have been drowsing there forever. "These people, as you call them, are my family and my friends. Philippe is my brother-in-law. Maddy trusts him, and therefore I trust him. Leliana has saved my life more times that you could_ ever_ know. The Wardens are my brothers in a way that cannot be broken." He slipped off the edge of the desk and stood directly before the Arl, looking down at him. For the first time he realised he was taller than Eamon. "But you don't want me to have family and friends, do you? You've denied me that all my life, and you're _still_ trying to deny me."

"My boy, this isn't about you, it's about political perception."

Something snapped inside. "It's _never_ been about me. And don't call me that." He gazed down into the Arl's calculating blue-grey eyes. Maddy was right. He was pretty sure that, in his own way, Eamon felt affection for him, but looking now into those shrewd eyes, he finally realised it hadn't been enough. "Tell me something, Eamon: why wasn't I fostered?"

"What? Surely this is no longer relevant, Alistair. You hold the crown; your heritage has been more than fulfilled."

"And that's all that matters, right? My heritage, the crown, this is all I should care about? Why wasn't I fostered like any other royal bastard?"

"Alistair, you have to understand, my sister was Maric's queen; the King didn't want Rowan embarrassed by his indiscretion. It seemed better to just have you live quietly as a commoner."

"But I didn't get to do that either, did I? No quiet family life on a farm for me. Instead I got to be neither one thing nor the other, kept close by in case you needed my blood." The bitterness was a flood, dammed up too long. "Until your wife took exception to my presence, and you packed me off to the Chantry for the most miserable years of my entire life. You're lucky the Wardens recruited me, you know. A lyrium-addicted King might have caused you a few unforeseen problems."

"Alistair-"

"And now it's, once again, not convenient for me to have family or friends. Isn't that what you're saying? That everything will be so much easier if I just get rid of them?" The words had all poured out in a torrent, and he felt cleansed by them, but also heartbroken, as though he'd just destroyed something valuable. He wanted to apologise, wished he'd bitten his tongue, but it was all true, and long overdue to be said.

The Arl looked sad, deflated. "I've always done what I thought was best, Alistair. For you, and for Ferelden. I'm sorry if that wasn't enough." He drew himself up, and addressed his King. "I'll resign as Chancellor, if that's what you wish, sire."

"What? Maker, no." Alistair ran his hands through his hair, wondering how things had collapsed so fast. "No, I do trust you to do your best for Ferelden. But I won't let you tell me who my friends should be, Eamon. If the Bannorn don't like it, then we'll have to find another way to turn them around."

Eamon sighed faintly and capitulated. "Very well, but it won't be easy. Perhaps after the Landsmeet you should undertake a Royal procession? When she keeps her temper, your Queen can be very charming. Visit with the landowners, let them get to know her."

"Wow, you really know how to pick all my least favourite things, don't you? Alright, if that's what it takes, then we'll do it. Now, I really have to go. We'll talk about the Chantry later; there's something I need to check first."

_-oOo-_

Eamon was right about one thing; it would certainly be _simpler_ if he didn't have friends. As Alistair approached the Warden compound he had a strong foreboding that his life was about to become even more complicated. Four Templars with their throats cut, two more incapacitated with magic and traps_. Maker, please don't let him have been so stupid. Let it have been the Collective, or some other set of idiots._

The guards outside were a couple of the Commander's silverite-clad soldiers, and admitted him immediately. He left his own guards at the gatehouse with them, and carried on alone.

As he penetrated further into the compound, he could hear squeals of laughter, and the patter of feet. Was it too much noise for two children? Probably. He followed the noise to its source.

At any other time it would have been a pretty tableau he walked in on. In the open training yard stood Leliana, wearing a blindfold; she had her head cocked, listening, and then blindly, but confidently, walked slowly towards the child whose giggle she heard, playfully stalking her like a tiger. Anders, and a dark-haired, middle-aged woman Alistair had never seen before, shouted encouraging instructions to the child, who was painstakingly casting a spell. He caught the whiff of magic, liquorice on his tongue; some kind of halt spell then, a paralysis perhaps. Blind Man's Bluff; it was a brilliant way to teach combat magic to children.

The problem being, there were seven children, not two. They did it, they bloody _did it_. They had _murdered _Templars; not only Anders, but Leliana _as well_. Who else would have set the blasted traps for him?

"I'm sorry to have to break up the party, but Anders, Leliana, I need to speak to you privately, _right now_." The combination of his sudden appearance, and his furious tone, caused everyone to stop dead. One of the younger children snuffled a little, and another began to cry.

The unknown woman turned with a marked frown, and eyed him up and down. "And who might you be, stomping in here, upsetting the children?"

Alistair was in no mood to pander to anyone at this point. Today was fast becoming one of the worst days of his life; if this turned out to be a sister Warden, he'd apologise later. "I'm the King of Ferelden, who are _you_?"

The woman snorted. "Oh, haha, very funny. Well, I won't have you-"

"Marlene! Stop it; please!" Anders frantically shushed her. "Alistair, I'm sorry, I-"

Alistair cut him off, abruptly, while the woman, Marlene, gasped and dropped a curtsey. "Privately. _Now_."

_-oOo-_

"You pair of utter, complete, and total_ idiots_."

Anders jumped in quickly, drawing the King's ire. "Don't blame Leliana, this was all my doing. I'm the one you should blame; she wanted to tell you what we'd done."

"She wanted to tell me what you'd _done_?" Alistair threw his hands up in despair. "Oh well, that's all right then, if you'd _told me_ you'd murdered a bunch of Templars, everything would be fine, wouldn't it?" He took a hasty turn around the small office they had adjourned to. "Did it not occur to either of you to tell me what you were _planning_? To let me know _before_ you did something stupid?"

Anders looked at him, dumbfounded. It was left to Leliana to respond, as soothingly as possible. "Alistair, you're the _King_. It wouldn't have been right to implicate you in this. And truly, we didn't know, until it was too late, that we would have to kill them. They saw our faces. That's why we were so careful the next time. Oh, but if you had seen the children. They'd been hurt, one had a broken arm."

Alistair struggled with his anger and frustration. "Yes, I'm the King. And, with that in mind, did it not occur to either of you that, if you had come to me, I could have found a better solution? Anders, you _knew_ I needed evidence if I wanted to act against the Chantry. And instead of bringing that evidence to me, instead of letting me demonstrate to the Landsmeet how low the Templars have stooped…" He broke off, clenching his fists, trying to get his temper under his command. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and more rigidly controlled. "Instead, my advisor on magical affairs blunders in, destroys the evidence, and commits murder. Which leaves us all wide open to blame, with the Chantry in possession of the moral high ground." He looked at Anders, who shuffled uncomfortably and shifted his gaze to the floor. "At a time when I really, _really_, don't need the Chantry looking in our direction, do I?"

Anders looked up sharply. "You mean that you-" He stopped abruptly, looking sidelong at Leliana who was watching them both with sudden curiosity.

Alistair dropped into a chair wearily, suddenly bereft of strength. "Yes, I've made my decision. And Leliana is going to have to know anyway." He looked over at her, one of his oldest friends, and said dully, "Maddy is a mage. I have an apostate Queen. And I'm not going to give her up to the Chantry."

"_Maker's breath_." Leliana went white, shocked into immobility.

Again, Anders stepped in quickly. "It's not as bad as all that, she's not_ exactly_ a mage; she can't cast ordinary spells at all."

"I don't understand." Leliana looked bewildered, and Anders swiftly explained what they knew, while Alistair sat staring at the floor, utterly drained. He felt like he had spent the entire day in a dizzying spiral of emotion; fear, heartbreak, anger, there was nothing else left in him, he was empty.

"So _that's_ what the Keeper was talking about." Having been brought up to speed, Leliana appeared to be having a revelation. Unfortunately, he couldn't summon up even the mildest curiosity about it.

Now that Anders had finished explaining things to Leliana, the mage was staring at him intently. Alistair vaguely wondered why, and what else they wanted from him. It seemed so difficult to _think_.

"Hold that thought Leliana, I think Alistair needs a jolt." Anders moved up to his side and put a hand on the other man's head, concentrating. "You've had a rough day, my friend; it's taken a lot out of you." Rejuvenating energy flowed from his hand, and Alistair smelt the bright, strong scent of lemons. The transfer of energy went on for some time, and as it did, his head slowly cleared. "Feeling better?" the mage enquired.

Alistair took a deep breath and stretched, letting tension out with the breath. "Yes, much better. Maker, I didn't realise how far gone I was, until you gave it back. Thanks."

Anders gripped his shoulder before stepping away. "Well, as I contributed to your problems, it's the least I could do. I'm sorry Alistair, I screwed up. I'm not used to the idea that anything can actually be _done_ about the Chantry. I've spent my entire life circumventing them."

Alistair shook his head ruefully. "I'm not sure what I'm getting so het up about. Now this situation with Maddy has cropped up… Maker, I can't take the Chantry on now, I'd be terrified of attracting their attention to her."

"You have to, Alistair." Leliana's voice rang with determination. "Blessed Andraste would weep to see what they have become. It is _wrong_. And you are the only person who has the power to stop them."

Anders chewed his lip. "I dread to think what might be happening at the Circle Tower. Not that I have any intention of going within a country mile of them to find out, you understand."

Alistair shook his head, despairingly. "Leliana, I don't think you appreciate what this means. If it gets out that Maddy is a mage, and I hid her, they'll probably depose me. I won't be able to help _anyone_ then."

"This is what I wanted to say before." Leliana's eyes were bright, the only optimistic thing in the room right now. "I do not think Maddy is a mage. You saw how the Dalish bowed to her; they think she is something very special, not a mage. The Keeper had a word for it, an elvish word, similar to the ones they use for tree and ground. Lanaya said it was a precious gift, the cultivation of the land and the forests."

Alistair was flabbergasted. "You _knew_?" he gasped accusingly.

She shook her head. "No, I misunderstood her at the time; only now does it make any sense. I think you need to take Maddy to see the Dalish, they may know what she truly is."

"Um… the Dalish don't exactly welcome visitors, Leliana."

"The Keeper said that Maddy was welcome with them any time, that it would be an honour. Would they do so, if she was just a mage?"

Leliana's enthusiasm was infectious; Alistair's heart lightened a fraction in response. "After the Landsmeet, then. Eamon has talked me into doing a Royal procession around the country. I'll make sure Bertram puts the Dalish into the schedule." He rose to his feet, wanting to end this, to go check on Maddy. She'd been alone too long with this problem hanging over her. "And please, if you two find out about any more Templars, let me know. We need to set a trap, with proper witnesses, not blunder in." He paused, with his hand on the door handle. "Oh, and one other thing; no-one else is to know about Maddy. Not Eamon, not _anyone."_

"You will tell Philippe?"

Leliana's question halted Alistair in his tracks again. _Oh Maker, that's a conversation I'm not looking forward to. _ "Yes, I will tell Philippe, of course, when he returns."

"Andraste's knickers… the Landsmeet." Anders tottered to a chair, and collapsed into it, dropping his head into his hands with a despairing moan.

The other two looked at him in astonishment. Alistair, halted once again on the verge of leaving, frowned at him. "What about it?"

The mage groaned and raised his head. "The Warden Commander will be coming here for the Landsmeet. What am I going to do about the children? Leonie will have my guts for garters."

_-oOo-_


	23. Chapter 23

_-oOo-_

Everywhere seemed strange and wrong; the palace, the royal apartments, and even the orangery. She shied away from people, but didn't dare follow her normal pursuits either. She was a freak, an oddity and a danger. Everything had changed. _She_ had changed. So she moped through the gardens, following a silent siren call she wasn't even aware of, until she stood before it. The _Vhen'alath. _Summer breezes rustled through the leaves, whispering of comfort and love.

Maddy pressed her hands, and her forehead, against the rough bark, and desperately wished that yesterday had not happened. That she could still believe she was normal, and happy. That she wasn't an enormous threat, to Alistair, and to the stability of an entire country. She drew comfort from questing root and basking leaf, but even that was mixed with horror at her difference. Other people couldn't sense this. They didn't feel the seeking, the stretching; all the placid pursuit of growth. She'd always thought they could. She'd believed that it varied, and perhaps she had it stronger than most, which is why she loved gardening. But she had thought it _normal_; like being good at fencing, or the pianoforte. Not_ magic_. But still the _Vhen'alath _called to her, its presence stronger than any tree she had ever known. And so, she climbed up the rough trunk, swinging her foot up to catch the first available branch, and hauled herself into the crook. It wasn't the old familiar spot in her tree in Ghislain, but it was shady and comfortable, and the _Vhen'alath _murmured of family and love until she slept in its arms.

_-oOo-_

"In the garden, is she? Do not concern yourself, Bertram, I shall find my own way. In the meantime, inform the King that I have returned, and that I have news for him, _s'il vous plait._"

"Certainly, Your Highness. I shall have your trunks taken to your apartments. Signore Arainai, if you would be so good as to follow me, I shall show you to your room."

Philippe first checked the orangery and then stepped out into the garden to seek his sister. There were signs of her industry since arriving from Orlais; beds had been turned and planted, and gardeners were laying walls to her design. But there was no Maddy. Philippe knew his sister better than anyone; if she was not working, then she was sleeping. He picked his way across the new turf to the big walnut tree and looked up, a smile curving his mouth.

"I see you brought your idle ways with you to Ferelden, _ma_ _chérie_. Perhaps I should advise Alistair to beat his lazy wife?"

It seemed almost as though the abundant leaves stilled for a moment, then a small body hurtled out of the tree, almost falling in her haste to descend, and Maddy threw herself into her brother's arms, crying, "Philippe, you're back, you're back." She burst into tears.

Philippe stroked her hair lovingly. "What's this? I've been away only two weeks, this is no reason for tears. What's wrong, _ma petite, _to have upset you so?" She just wept harder than ever, and Philippe looked up to where Alistair was approaching over the lawn, his eyes narrowing. If his sister's husband had brought her to this state, then there would be a reckoning.

But, as he grew closer, it was clear that the Ferelden King was in nearly as distraught a condition as Maddy; his face was anguished as he gazed at his weeping wife. Philippe held on to his sister; her head against his chest, his hand sweeping comfortingly down her hair. He fixed his eyes on her husband, and waited, the silent question hanging in the air.

Alistair stopped next to them, and swallowed uncomfortably. "Philippe, we need to talk, privately."

_-oOo-_

The sound of the Chant being sung soothed Cullen's mind, brought him a touch of peace. At least now the children were being brought up with a proper reverence for Andraste and the Maker. It did not surprise him that so many of the older mages were such a danger to the world; a mere fifteen minutes of religious contemplation a day! It was a wonder to him that any of them withstood the continuous, whispered, temptations of the demons, with so little faith to protect them. The next generation would be better equipped; ready, and eager, to dedicate their service to Andraste. Besides,, if some did not see her light clearly enough, well, there were always other ways to serve.

The Knight Commander continued on his rounds, the murmur of the Chant fading behind him, past the empty room which had been assigned to the Libertarians, then the occupied rooms of the Aequitarians, and Isolationists. All noise in the rooms ceased abruptly as he passed by.

He stopped in at the cramped workrooms of the Tranquil, taking the time to check the supervisor's quota sheets. Everything was as it should be; the work continuing apace, the workforce productive, silent, and safe. The only magic he could sense here was the solid, sensible magic associated with crafting. It was heavy, harmless, and doughy on his tongue, like comfort food. He breathed in deeply, trying to take it with him as he trod down the stairs to the library.

Thankfully, there was only one class in progress, a small, select, group of children being taught healing magic by one of his best teachers. Only Loyalists were allowed to teach now, the risk was too great that the others would pollute these tender young minds. Knight Commander Cullen had a duty to ensure their safety, and he would not fail them. The only other person in the library was the dwarf, Dagna, studying quietly as usual. He approved of Dagna; her understanding of magic grew by the day, but she posed no risk, as the demons had no access to her. She was an asset to the Circle, and he gave her a corresponding amount of freedom.

A quick pass through the apprentice quarters completed his rounds. Here there was bustle, as new children were being brought in all the time, assigned to their Loyalist mentors, and instructed in the Circle rules and regulations. Here also was the highest concentration of watchful Templars, keeping a particularly careful eye on the older apprentices, who had spent too long under the old regime. Potential troublemakers had already been weeded out, but still, it paid to be careful.

Satisfied that his domain was secure, Knight Commander Cullen returned to his office.

_-oOo-_

Philippe poured another stiff drink with a shaking hand. Maddy, a mage? It was unthinkable, impossible. And yet, the pair of doleful faces opposite him seemed very certain. Husband and wife sat side by side on the sofa, his large hand clasping her small one in a reassuring grasp. Although anxious, Alistair appeared resolute, whereas his poor Maddy, his beloved sister, was obviously torn to bits over this.

"Philippe, tell Alistair that I'm right. He should s-set me aside; I will g-go back to Ghislain, with you. Then he will be safe." The wobble in her voice betrayed her distress, and Philippe's heart broke for her.

"_M__a_ _chérie, _it is not my place to tell Alistair anything, he has not asked for my advice. It would appear that he knows his own mind."

Alistair's mouth and jaw were set in determined lines. "I've made my decision - which is that I won't, absolutely _will not_, see her in the hands of the Chantry. For the moment, that means taking care not to expose her in any way, and trying to find out what it is she actually _does_. Now I've had it demonstrated to me, I can tell you for sure; it doesn't feel, it doesn't _taste_, like any magic I've come across. I've only had this wild strawberry taste a couple of times before and, looking back, I'm pretty sure it was Maddy each time."

Philippe shrugged expressively. "I will have to take your word for that, _mon frère_."

"Maddy, I know you think it would be safer for both of us if I set you aside and you lived quietly in Ghislain again, and I did think about it, not for me, but for you. The reason, the _only_ reason, I considered it is that, if the Chantry find out about you… "Alistair rubbed his thumb over the hand he was holding, and his face showed his distress, "…then you'll be in real danger, and I don't know how I'll protect you. But setting you aside would cause an enormous ruckus between Ferelden and Orlais and as there's no good reason for us to split, you'd be under a massive amount of scrutiny, and more at risk than ever. Not to mention the fact that it would ruin you, socially. I'm not going to do it, so put it out of your mind, alright?"

"_Ma soeur_, I am sorry, but I think Alistair is correct. It is not feasible to do as you suggest; how do you think Celene would react? You are asking him to choose a _definite_ rift with Orlais, over a _possible_ rift with the Chantry. Setting aside all our personal feelings, it would not be sensible to do so."

"Oh." Maddy's voice was small and forlorn. "I hadn't looked at it like that."

"_Bon_, now that we have that as settled as possible, perhaps we should move on." Philippe crossed his legs, and took a sip from his glass. "Alistair, I have to inform you that I have imposed upon your hospitality. I brought back with me someone who has assisted with the matter of the bard, Moreau. He says he knows you."

Alistair blinked in surprise. "He does? Bertram said you had a guest, but not who it was."

"Hmm, I may owe you an apology for bringing him into your home. I am not certain of your… relationship with him. However, at the very least I think you will want to hear what he has to say about the assassination attempt." Philippe sighed and fixed his eyes on his brother-in-law, who was looking confused. "His name is Zevran; he was one of your Blight companions, I believe."

"Wow, really?" Maddy's eyes went round with wonder. "Another one?"

"Zev's here?" Alistair's face showed none of the hostility that Zevran had, although he looked a little cautious. Then, suddenly, his eyes darkened and his brow furrowed. "Are you telling me he was _involved_?" he asked ominously.

"No, no." Philippe hastened to reassure him. "He stumbled upon the plot, and sought me out. He has been entirely helpful," he smiled ruefully, "and a pest, albeit an entertaining one."

"Ah," Alistair's grin was somewhat wicked, "tried to seduce you, did he? Don't worry, that just makes you part of a very widespread, and non-exclusive, club."

"Really?" Maddy's gaze was fixed on her husband, and contained just enough fascination to make the poor man blush. "Did he…?"

"Maker, no. No! Well, he did once say that I was… But, no! Never!" At these protestations, the interested gaze of both wife and brother-in-law intensified enough to turn Alistair beetroot.

Philippe was hard pressed to suppress his laughter, but sufficiently glad to see Maddy a little more of her old self, that he felt it worth pursuing a shade further. "I look forward to re-uniting you with your paramour, _mon ami_. What a delightful reunion it will be, particularly when he, inevitably, flirts with your wife, also."

"He'd better not," growled Alistair possessively, making Maddy blush a very pleasing pink.

Philippe's lips twitched. "So, shall we summon him here, and test the theory? It is time to go over what we know of the sordid little plot, is it not?"

Alistair unfolded himself from the sofa. "I'll get a servant to bring him, and Leliana, Anders and Eamon too, if they are in the palace." He stopped as a thought struck him. "Oh, by the way, Philippe; Leliana and Anders both know about Maddy, but Eamon doesn't. And it needs to stay that way – he has a son at the Circle Tower, and a wife who is highly religious; I don't have any reliance on what his reaction would be."

"Very well, _mon ami_." Philippe spread his hands equably. "You know him best."

_-oOo-_

Zevran arrived first, and Maddy looked him over with interest as he was ushered into the sitting room, seated and served with refreshments. So this was the flamboyant assassin named in the tales; she had expected him to be dark haired, and darker skinned. His pale hair and burnished skin were not usual for Antiva - not usual for Antivan _humans_, she reminded herself. There was no saying what colouring was usual for Antivan elves, after all.

His manner was like no elf she had ever met. There was absolutely no hint of subservience, such as the alienage elves had, but no belligerence either. The aloofness of the Dalish was also absent. He moved like a hunting cat, even more so than Leliana, and with a menace the bard lacked. His manners had the polish of a noble, but without the accompanying hauteur. Instead, this was replaced with a hint of mockery. Maddy understood a little better now the caution and reserve Alistair had shown, when Philippe had said who their guest was. This wasn't a particularly _safe_ person to have around.

As soon as the door closed behind the servant, Zevran smiled broadly at Alistair, the smile not quite reaching his tawny eyes. "I understand congratulations are in order." He uncoiled from his seat and approached Maddy, "I had no idea such loveliness existed at the Orlesian court. Here in Ferelden all the so-called beauties are gnashing their teeth in envy over their new Queen, I have no doubt. " Zevran took her hand in long, delicate fingers, and brought it to his lips. Over his bent head, she could see her husband's scowl.

"Maddy, this is Zevran Arainai, who you have no doubt heard of. Zevran; this is my _wife,_ Madeleina." The emphasis was very slight, but she saw the elf's eyes light up with a touch of genuine amusement, as he gracefully withdrew to his seat.

Maddy was thankful that Leliana arrived at that moment. The bard wasted no time in throwing herself into Zevran's arms with a squeak of surprise, gifting him with a hearty and affectionate kiss, which he returned enthusiastically. Maddy was amused to note that Anders, following Leliana into the room, appeared to regard this embrace with a touch of disapprobation. A close friendship had grown up between the mage and the bard, and it was _possible_ that his response was mere concern for her welfare, but Maddy would not have put money on it. Anders took a seat on the sofa, on Maddy's other side, while Pounce, after a haughty look at Leliana, now comfortably ensconced on the assassin's knee, jumped up on the sofa-arm and began to wash himself in a somewhat marked manner.

Eamon was the last to arrive, apologising, and looking weary. He dropped into the remaining chair, and accepted some tea from the servant. Once that worthy had served everyone and left, the meeting proper could begin.

_-oOo-_

Dagna lugged the steps over to the shelves she needed, and dragged down another heavy tome. It must be in here _somewhere_. She had gone through virtually every book on Circle history and law in the entire library over the last couple of weeks, putting all her other research on hold. Everyone had always spoken of it as a Law, and, if that was the case, then it had been comprehensively broken, here in Ferelden. But it was beginning to look like it may have only been a convention, after all, as she could find no record of it anywhere. And, the longer she took to find it, the less people there were left to benefit from it.

She sighed, propping her head on her hands, skimming down the pages. What was she going to do, even if she found it? Go to the King? Crown and Chantry had always co-existed comfortably; there was no reason to think that the King would help, assuming he even agreed to see her. Go to Cumberland, to the Council of Magi? Last voting census showed a _lot _of Loyalists held chairs there; and she had no idea whether this change of behaviour was local, or international. For all she knew, every Circle in Thedas could be run like this now. No, every mining caste family in Orzammar knew the first rule – if you can't shore up the ceiling in good time, then you get out while you can. The seam will still be there another day, when you have the equipment you need. With this in mind, Dagna abandoned her book, and ran her finger along the section containing ancient maps of Kinloch Hold, and the surrounding area. The other end of the route was well known to her caste and clan; she just needed to find the entrance here.

_-oOo-_

Philippe quickly outlined everything that had happened in Orlais. He described the investigation by the Empress' intelligence office, the anonymous message, and his meeting with Zevran. The assassin picked up the tale from there to detail the information he had acquired from the Crow Master, the state of Moreau's rooms and body, and the fake documents he had purloined. These were passed to Alistair, and then to Eamon, while Philippe gave a verbal portrait of exactly what kind of Orlesian noble they implicated. Finally, Zevran explained the one thing that made the biggest difference: that the contract could only have been put in place by someone of great importance.

When Philippe finished speaking, Alistair scrubbed his hand through his hair, sharing a worried look with Eamon. This information threw out of the window their most likely theory - that the attack on Maddy had been because she was Orlesian - and replaced it with one that was much more disturbing.

Eamon's gaze was a little blank, as it often was when his mental wheels were turning. After a moment he turned his eyes to Zevran. "Could you tell me exactly who is able to commission such a contract directly with the head of the Crows? Is this a function limited to Heads of State?"

Zevran shrugged. "That is different for every country, I think. You have to understand I was not so close to the… throne, as it were, to know for sure. Kings and Emperors, certainly, provided they know who to approach. In Tevinter it would include a number of their most senior mages. There are, in strong economic countries, a few powerful business people, and bankers. It would definitely include both of the Divines – Black and White - and all of the Grand Clerics. In Antiva itself, the situation is more complex, as the Crows hold most of the power themselves, both political and monetary." He twisted Leliana's braid between his fingers, considering. "I doubt this is a comprehensive list. Some of those I have mentioned would not know how to set about such a transaction." Alistair raised his hand, and Zev acknowledged him with a wry smile. "Such as your innocent King here, for example. There are other individuals in the world who _would_ know how, despite not being quite so obviously powerful."

Leliana nodded. "One or two of the most elite bard cells in Orlais could be classed as such. But they would not hire the Crows for work such as this. The task itself was too simple; the buyer had to be someone from completely outside the game."

Eamon gazed out of the window, blank once again. "So Heads of State, Chantry or business. Someone wanted us at war with Orlais. Direction or misdirection?"

Alistair blinked at him. "I think you may have moved too fast for me, there."

Eamon focused on his King. "Does someone actively want us engaged in hostilities with Orlais, or merely want our attention firmly fixed on a target, any target, that is not_ them_?"

"If there are any further moves against us, then we will know." Leliana picked her nail thoughtfully. "Also we should watch for other unusual activity; border movements, trade, piracy. Something that they were hoping we would be too busy to see, perhaps?"

Eamon nodded slowly. "I'll have messages sent to all the ports. Most nations could only come at us by sea. I've heard nothing out of the ordinary with regard to piracy. The Chantry is, as always, upset about lyrium smugglers, and now also about murdered Templars. We will be in danger of food riots over the winter unless we can buy in more grain; too much land was ruined by the Blight, and it could take decades to recover. The Bannorn are in a perfectly usual state of turmoil, upset with each other, and to some degree, with us. We have problems needing our attention, but nothing I could pinpoint as being relevant to this."

Alistair frowned, wondering. The only truly unusual activity at the moment was within the Chantry, but he couldn't raise that here without giving Anders and Leliana away. Damn their idiocy. He resolved to take a closer look at that situation, just as soon as he could. In the meantime however… "So,would we all agree that there is no advantage to waiting any longer for the Landsmeet? It would appear that Lady Harla was merely a pawn, and we have no reason to think her family was involved."

Eamon pursed his lips. "There was no advantage to waiting as long as we have. As you know Alistair, in such a matter, you have sovereign right. The Landsmeet will not need to vote on your judgement."

Alistair nodded, and explained patiently for what felt like the twentieth time. "I know that, Eamon. But I would rather the Landsmeet see my justice done, when an entire noble house is involved. If it's done privately, it provokes rumour."

"As you wish. I will call the Landsmeet then. The nobles will be relieved to be able to get it over with, and return home." Eamon levered himself from his seat. "I have to go; I have a meeting arranged shortly."

After his departure, it felt as if the whole room breathed more freely, the formal meeting now concluded. Maddy jumped up and offered wine to their guests. Leliana abandoned Zev's knee to take the spare chair, and regarded the assassin with curious blue eyes. "So, Zevran, did you come to Ferelden just to bring us this information?"

The assassin's smile was as inscrutable as ever. "My dear Leliana, had I known that Ferelden was still graced with your presence, I would have come for you alone."

"And that is just as good an answer as any I received in three days on ship, dear lady." Amusement rippled in Philippe's smooth voice. "It seems Signore Arainai's motivations are to remain a mystery."

"You may delve into my mysteries any time you wish, _il mio principe_." The silky seductiveness of the invitation was somewhat spoilt by Maddy, who bit down on a giggle, and then collapsed onto Alistair's lap with a peal of laughter.

"I-I see what you mean about him, now," she stammered, before going off into another howl of merriment, that made a bubble of laughter form in Alistair's throat too. He sniggered, and poked her in the belly, provoking a fresh paroxysm, while her brother regarded her with fond amusement.

Zevran arched his eyebrows sardonically. "I am glad to have provoked such hilarity."

Anders looked bewildered at the giggling Queen on the sofa beside him, and turned his head enquiringly to Alistair on her other side. "Am I missing something, here?"

Alistair shrugged, most of his attention on hauling his wife up onto his knee. "Not much. I was telling Maddy and Philippe earlier; the only criteria required to have Zev try to seduce you, was to be alive and breathing."

"I never saw him try to seduce Sten," Leliana pointed out.

"Ah, it is true, I did not. But you will recall him telling Morrigan that the qunari act is deadly. There is a limit even to my sense of adventure." Zevran seemed to be taking the mockery well, just as he always had. Now that it was clear Maddy had his measure, Alistair found himself warming to his old companion.

"Feel free to stick around for a while, Zev," he said, "but don't be surprised if we put you to work – there's a fair amount going on at the moment, and I suspect Leliana could use another information gatherer."

"Oh? Well, if life here is interesting and entertaining, then I am at your disposal. I am tired of having to kill substandard Crow Masters. They are much less likely to pursue me, while I reside so close to a throne."

Virtually everyone in the room turned to the assassin with astonished eyes. It was Anders who summed up everyone's thoughts; he curled up in his sofa corner with all the air of a man about to be royally entertained, and reached for his drink. "My dear fellow, do tell."

_-oOo-_


	24. Chapter 24

_-oOo-_

Anders squirmed uncomfortably; pinned under the Warden Commander's gaze. "I'm sorry, I know the Wardens shouldn't be involving themselves in Chantry business, but you should have seen the children, Leonie; they were filthy and scared, and hurt. Those animals had even broken a boy's arm and _left it unset_."

She didn't speak, and there was no way to interpret that black-eyed stare; it just prompted more self-justification. Anders' mouth opened, and continued speaking without conscious volition. "Killing the first set was a mistake, we hadn't planned well enough, and I know that. We were more careful next time, so we didn't have to murder them."

Commander Leonie finally stirred and blinked, shaking her head very slightly. "Actually Anders, I think that was your error. It left clues about who had committed the act. It was foolish of you to leave them alive."

His jaw dropped and he gawped at her in shock. Before he could recover, she continued briskly, "Come, we must decide what to do with _les enfants_. They cannot remain here any longer; it is too risky, particularly if you are leaving the capital with the King and Queen. I shall speak with this nursemaid, this Marlene, _tout de suite_, and devise a more appropriate solution."

Anders gathered his scattered wits, swallowed, and managed, "Yes, Commander."

_-oOo-_

The cream of Ferelden society trickled into the Landsmeet chamber, singly, and in groups. The twin thrones on the dais, backed by an enormous banner displaying a pair of rampant mabari supporting a golden crown, remained empty. Knots and clusters of the most powerful people in the country moved in intricate patterns, greeting and discussing, their cliques and alliances visible to an experienced eye.

Eamon moved openly among them, giving them the opportunity to raise matters they wished brought to the King's ear. Leliana drifted subtly in his wake, drawing no attention, and listening to what they said after he left. Philippe, present only as a guest, and resplendent in the latest Orlesian fashions, was putting out his best efforts to charm as many people as humanly possible. Anders had buttonholed Arl Teagan, hoping to hear news of the Circle, as it was so close to Redcliffe.

Even an untalented observer could gauge opinion on those subjects which were being most avidly, and openly, discussed.

…_they say that it was Sighard as much as Harla… his father died in the War, you know…_

_Fifteen Templars tortured and killed… sacrilege in the eyes of the Maker… she says they are building an army of apostates and maleficar, right here in Denerim… _

_Well, at least the Guerrins won't get Dragon's Peak… have you heard who it might be gifted to?_

_I hear that Queen Madeleina was practically brought up by Empress Celene… Maric would weep to see us come to this…_

_So much land is still blighted… Thankfully, the new trade agreements with Orlais mean we can bring in all the extra grain we need…_

A blare of trumpets brought the Landsmeet to order, the buzz of conversation ceasing as people took their places. A second cascade of notes heralded the entrance of the King and Queen, and everyone dropped into a bow or curtsey. The sight of King Alistair in full armour, and wearing a sword, caused a renewed murmur. It had been largely expected that the highlight of this Landsmeet would be the King's Justice against Dragon's Peak, and his choice of attire confirmed it. The royal couple took their seats, and the nobles arose. The King's Chamberlain called for the first matter listed, and the Landsmeet began.

Only certain matters were dealt with at a Landsmeet. In Ferelden, ordinary justice was meted out by the local lord. If a dispute arose between two landowners, then they would take it before their Bann. If it was between two Banns, or two landowners answering to different Banns, then it would go before their Arl, and so on, escalating up to Teyrns.

The King held the Right of Justice over persons of any rank, but in reality he only meted it out in exceptional cases: disputes between high ranking individuals, treason, and war crimes. The job of the Landsmeet was not to intervene in matters of justice, but to advise the King on matters of national policy: changes to the law, to taxation, and suchlike. The breadth of the definition of the term "advise" varied depending on the strength of the King, and the depth of his support. Technically, the King could overrule the Landsmeet's vote on any matter, as they merely advised him. In reality, he needed to accept their judgement in the majority of cases, as their support provided the basis for his power. Under this system, only a King who had the country solidly behind him could truly rule alone.

The Chantry also held power in the Landsmeet on the basis of its support. It was not answerable to the pyramid structure of nobility; it controlled its people internally, with its Priests and Templars answerable to the canon of Chantry Law. The Grand Cleric did not hold a Landsmeet vote, but the Chantry could put forward proposals for the Landsmeet to consider, and could subtly affect the votes of its ardent supporters on all matters of policy, both spiritual_ and_ secular.

The minor matters of the Landsmeet were dealt with first: a reading of the alteration in trade agreements with Orlais, which was purely for information: and a few minor proposals for amendments to tithing, which interested only those involved and, as far as everyone else was concerned, took far too long to sort out. Long before the interested parties had run out of things to say, the King called for the vote, and the various tweaks to the law were passed or refused.

Next up was the Arl of Denerim's proposal for improvements to conditions in the Alienages. This directly affected only a few nobles in the room, but these were some of the most powerful people present; the Teyrns of Highever and Gwaren, the Arls of Denerim and Amaranthine. Only cities and major towns had an alienage. Of course, indirectly, it affected them all, as it was their tithes that would go to pay for the improvements. There was an enormous amount of discussion, with Arl Eamon, at his most persuasive, taking the lead. The majority of people seemed perfectly happy to agree that _in theory_ the living conditions were terrible and should be dealt with, but repeatedly pointed out that _in practice_ it was going to cost too much.

This was the result Eamon and Alistair had been expecting, and they had their plan worked out. Once most of the shouting had died down, the King proposed an alternative resolution. He informed the Landsmeet that he and his new Queen had personally visited the Denerim alienage, and they had been horrified by the conditions there, but very impressed with the wisdom of the Hahren. As a result the Crown proposed to subsidise a percentage of the costs of improvement to all the alienages, directly from the Queen's dowry, on the condition that the Hahren of the Denerim alienage received a seat on the Landsmeet, representing the interests of all the alienages. He then called for a vote before they could think about it too much. It passed smoothly, and the King did his best not to look too relieved, or triumphant.

The next proposal came from the Chantry, and had only been entered into the list that morning, giving the Crown virtually no time to prepare. Alistair had been less than happy about that, and having to deal with a seething Anders hadn't helped either. The Grand Cleric proposed a change to the law stating that to interfere with a Templar in the process of his duty was treason, just as it would be to interfere with a state official. When the Chamberlain read out the proposal, there were murmurs all over the room. Before he allowed anyone else to speak, the King raised his hand for silence, and addressed the Grand Cleric directly.

"Your Eminence, what is your basis for this proposal?"

She stepped forward to the rail of the balcony on which she stood. "To interfere with a servant of the Maker in their sacred duty is sacrilege. Sacrilege and treason are synonymous, as they challenge both the Crown, and the will of the Maker. Just as it is sacrilegious to betray one's King, placed on the throne by the will of the Maker, also it is treasonous to betray His servants."

There was uproar, as everyone tried to speak at once. Once again the King raised his hand, and the Chamberlain called for order. Before he could muster his own arguments on this matter, Alistair needed to know the opinion of the room, and so he called for the nobles to speak in turn if they wished. The banner of Waking Sea was raised, and Alistair invited Alfstanna to speak.

She stepped forward, an earnest, shrewd and well-liked young noblewoman. "Some of you may remember the plight of my brother, Ser Irminric, at the hands of Rendon Howe. That was a prime example of interference in the pursuit of a Templar's duty. My poor brother took nearly a year to recover enough to take up his post again. The law should protect these guardians in their work."

Her speech drew some applause and several supporting speeches; most of the nobles were very disturbed by the rumours of murder that had been flying around, and wished to see the culprits brought to justice. Alistair had no doubt that the most exaggerated versions of these had been put about by the Chantry.

Alistair was struggling to keep order in the chamber, as his advisors tried to claim his attention. On his right side Eamon was saying _you can't afford to oppose them on this_. Anders on his left was saying _you_ _must_. Chaos was breaking out on the floor, and it was with some relief that Alistair saw the Amaranthine banner raised. Order was restored once more, and the King gave Amaranthine the floor.

The Arlessa Commander stepped forward, the only one of the nobles other than Alistair himself, who wore full arms and armour. She bowed to the thrones, and addressed the room. "Noble Sieurs, I would say this. If a servant of the Maker is to be _protected_ by Ferelden law, then a servant of the Maker must be _subject_ to Ferelden law, _n'est-ce pas_? Currently the nobles have no right of justice over a Templar, or over any other Chantry official. In the event of wrongdoing, they are turned over to the Chantry, and are internally punished under Chantry law. While this is the case, I see no parity in this proposal."

If looks could kill, the Warden Commander would have been struck down by the Grand Cleric's fierce glare. As it was, she bowed, and stepped back with unruffled calm. Alistair could have kissed her, and Anders looked on the verge of running over to do so. Her speech seemed to have quenched the ardour of the Landsmeet, thoughtful expressions appearing on several faces. In the lull, the King addressed the Grand Cleric.

"Your Eminence, in view of this comment, do you wish to revise your proposal before the vote?" If she was prepared to subject her private army to the threat of King's Justice, then Alistair would be a very happy man.

She scowled and shook her head, and the King called for the vote.

The proposal was rejected, without the need for the Crown to intervene, and Alistair fought to keep his face impassive, while Anders went limp with relief. He was going to have to talk to the mage about putting forward a political face; Alistair could sympathise with him, he'd struggled himself, but the technique had to be learnt.

_-oOo-_

In the absence of the Grand Cleric, this part of the Cathedral was quiet, her personal entourage of Templars and senior clerics having accompanied her to the palace. Afternoon sunlight slanted through window at the far end of the hall, leaving patches of sunlight and shade on the stone floor. The locks on the door to the Grand Cleric's quarters proved no problem to the slim figure that silently approached it. He left them unharmed, so that they could be re-locked on the way out and no-one the wiser.

Inside, Zevran paused for a moment to get his bearings, check for traps, and ensure that no-one moved within. One of the open doors obviously led to a study, the desk visible under a window. Probably as good a place as any to start; he moved carefully, memorizing the position of every item before he touched it, wishing to leave no trace of his passing.

There was a minimal amount of documentation, either on the desk, or in any of the drawers and chests which he carefully unlocked. It would seem that Leanna held to the sensible rule of destroying documents after they had been read. There was a letter on her desk, marked with the seal of the Circle Tower, but unfortunately it had not yet been opened, perfectly breaking and reforming a wax seal was not something to be attempted on the fly.

The contents of one chest, the biggest by far in the room, and with the most complex lock, would have brought a sigh of greed to most lips, but the assassin remained unmoved. There were trays and trays of lyrium potions, and boxes upon boxes of raw dust. Papers were tucked into a pocket on the inside wall of the chest; he removed them and flicked through. He found an inventory, an allocation list, and a bundle of shipment notifications from Orzammar. He noted the supplier's names; the Chantry's stranglehold on the lyrium trade was one of their biggest powerbases.

Zev was in the process of closing the chest, when he stopped, turning his head and sniffing delicately. The downdraft of the lid had disturbed the air, and the scent he'd just picked up had no place in here. He carefully lifted out the top tray, and the next, and a stack of boxes, looking for the source of that scent. Nothing. But now he could smell it even stronger. He turned a speculative eye on the trays of potions and boxes of dust and opened one of each, sniffing. His amber eyes gleamed with amusement and a wicked smile twisted his lips. _Naughty, very naughty_. He tested other trays and boxes, and then turned back to the allocation list, looking thoughtful.

_-oOo-_

Once the formal business of the Landsmeet was concluded, Alistair gave the nod to his guard captain, and the prisoners were brought in.

The difference between Lady Harla, wearing manacles and a prison smock, and her husband and son, brought from their rooms in the palace, was shocking. Alistair had deliberately made it so, intent on ensuring that the Landsmeet knew who the perpetrator was, and who the victims were. Their guards kept them separated - the Bann and his son kneeling on the right, and the prisoner kneeling on the left. The actual surviving assassin would be dealt with separately; he was not worthy of the notice of the Landsmeet.

Oswyn was looking with horror at his mother; her lank tangled hair and dirty clothes, while her eyes drank him in like water. Bann Sighard looked only at the King.

King Alistair drew his sword, and laid it across his metal-clad knees. He looked up at the silent, watching nobles. "On the evening before our wedding, assassins attempted to kill my Queen. The two men who did so were found to be posing as guardsmen within the Dragons' Peak estate." He glanced down at the kneeling woman. "Lady Harla has confessed to poisoning my Palace Guard, and to assisting the assassins in gaining access to my wife." The blazing anger of three weeks ago had gone cold now, but it was still clear in his voice. "The matter has been investigated, and I am satisfied on several fronts. One: Neither Bann Sighard, nor his son Oswyn were in any way involved in this treasonous attack." His gaze swept the silent room. "Two: Lady Harla was merely the pawn in a very dangerous game, designed to cause war between Ferelden and Orlais. This attempt has _failed_, and all the documentation surrounding it lies in my hands."

This was possibly a slight exaggeration, but allowed Leliana and Eamon the opportunity to scour faces for traces of reaction, or even better, lack of surprise. There was a lot of murmuring following Point Two, this information had been kept strictly in the King's inner circle, and they had discussed at length whether to raise it today. In the end, Alistair felt that the advantage of making a show of strength overcame the disadvantage of informing the Landsmeet that a greater threat existed.

King Alistair waited until the Landsmeet came back to order, a huge graven metal statue seated on a throne with his petite Queen in her full-skirted gown beside him. Once there was silence again, he spoke judgement. "For her crimes, Lady Harla will be publicly hanged." The ragged, dishevelled woman kneeling before him bowed her head submissively. The King didn't look at her, or at her family, instead keeping his gaze on the members of the Landsmeet; this was for their benefit. His voice remained clear, and rock steady. "To have treason occur in any of your Houses is a shame and disgrace beyond all others, and I will not endure it. I will see this shame stripped from our homeland. To that end, Bann Sighard and his son Oswyn are hereby exiled from Ferelden, their lands and titles forfeit to the Crown. They will be escorted to the borders under guard."

At the King's words, Harla sobbed for the first time. Sighard and Oswyn knelt unmoved, their heads down, having expected nothing else. The murmurs from the Landsmeet were subdued; there was nothing here to surprise them.

"My King."

The Queen's voice rang out clear as a bell, stopping the murmurs dead. The King turned his head towards her.

Queen Madeleina arose from her throne and stepped between the King and the kneeling men, utterly ignoring the kneeling woman. She faced her King, dropped into a deep obeisance, and bowed her head, causing a fresh wave of whispers through the Landsmeet chamber. King Alistair watched her with a faint smile and a furrowed brow, a puzzled expression he had practised in front of the mirror that morning.

"I beg for mercy for the Bann of Dragon's Peak, and his heirs." She raised her head to look at her husband, green eyes wide and innocent. "You have said that they were not involved in the attack upon me, that you are certain of this. I came from Orlais to be your Queen, to be Ferelden's Queen. I do not wish to see an honoured House destroyed in this way; it is an inauspicious start to my new life. Please, my husband, let them stay and continue to serve Ferelden." The whispers surged into shocked speech.

The King stood, and raised up his Queen, leading her back to her throne. She half-turned to await his judgement, her hands clasped in her lap. He retook his own seat and sat in apparent thought, waiting for the chamber to come to order. Once the noise died down, he spoke regretfully, "My Queen, I cannot do as you ask. The Bann of Dragon's Peak was responsible for the behaviour of his wife, and must be exiled." An approving ripple sounded through the chamber. "However, this family has served long and honourably and, for _your_ sake, I am prepared to agree that the shame of the parents not be visited on the son. Oswyn shall be raised to Bann, and retain Dragon's Peak."

Harla, who had sat like a stone during this episode, suddenly went limp, and prostrated herself on the floor, sobbing thankfully. Sighard took his son's hand and squeezed it, his eyes shut tight. Oswyn stared at the King in utter disbelief. Alistair did his level best to sit there and look like a merciful King. He and Maddy had talked this subject to death, and this was the best solution they thought they could get away with. He didn't _feel_ like a merciful King, sending Sighard to a lonely exile, but he and Maddy were walking a very narrow path between two evils here. One that, hopefully, allowed him to appear to be a strong King who was humouring his wife, while preventing the downfall of a noble line who had always supported him. It was the best he could do, and he hoped it was enough. The Landsmeet hadn't rioted, which was a good sign, all in all.

_-oOo-_

Alistair stripped and bathed as soon he got back to their quarters, the hot water having been pre-ordered. He knew from experience how hot and uncomfortable it was to sit still for several hours, in full armour, in a crowded hall. Maddy ordered some tea and, when it arrived, poured two cups and brought it through to him. She picked up a flannel and soaped his back and shoulders, using the lather to dig her thumbs into cramped muscles, making him first wince, and eventually sigh in relief. She dropped a kiss on his damp forehead and picked up her cup, dropping into a chair to watch him bathe. Neither of them felt the need to talk, they were both grateful for the respite after all the formality.

After a while, their repose was interrupted by a servant, knocking on the door to say that Signore Arainai had returned. Alistair groaned and hauled himself reluctantly from the bath, reaching for a towel, while Maddy went to greet their guest.

By the time Alistair was dried and dressed, Zevran was ensconced in a comfortable chair with a glass of wine, entertaining Maddy with some tale of adventure. Or, more likely, misadventure, thought Alistair, pouring his own glass, and taking a seat. Zev had always had a habit of picking stories that showed the assassin in an amusing light, probably to draw attention away from his more deadly aspects.

"So, did you find anything interesting?" asked Alistair, once the tale was finished.

The elf smiled in quiet triumph. "I did, although perhaps not what you would have expected. It would seem that your new Grand Cleric is quite devious, with the mind of an Antivan lady."

Alistair looked perplexed, but Maddy sat up straighter. "Poison?" she said in surprise.

Zevran regarded her with lifted brows. "Oh, the little Queen has hidden depths. Now, how did you know that?"

Maddy snorted derisively. "Please, I may have done my very best to hide in the countryside, but my sister is still the Empress. Did you think I hadn't met any Antivan nobility?"

"In truth, that is a fair point. I shall bear it in mind in future." He took a tiny twist of paper from an inside pocket and placed it on the table. "Don't touch that," he warned, as Alistair reached for it, "not barehanded, anyway. It's lyrium." As Alistair pulled his hand back sharply, the assassin's mouth twisted into a sneer, "Or rather, it's _mostly_ lyrium."

"What?" Alistair frowned at him, puzzled.

"That, my dear Alistair, is from a chest of supplies in the Grand Cleric's own office. I was able to take a tiny amount of dust from one of the boxes, but sadly I could not take a vial, as I did not have one on me to replace it with." Zevran's eyes sparkled, although it was impossible to say whether this was from the adventure, or from the pleasure of holding all the knowledge. "There was a sizeable quantity of both dust and vials. Not their entire store by any means, I would imagine they have a vault for that, but it appeared to be the latest supply being readied to distribute to their Templars. There was an inventory list, and a distribution list, with it."

"Are you telling me that she's poisoning her own Templars' lyrium? That's _insane_."

Zevran smiled at Alistair's incredulity. "Poisons do a lot of different things. It would be foolish to assume that she is trying to do any lasting damage to them. That dust," he gestured to the twist of paper, "is cut with deathroot powder. There were many vials of lyrium potion which also smelt faintly of deathroot. It is very subtle; only one such as I would notice it."

Maddy tucked her legs up on her chair, sinking her chin to her knees, and stared intently at Zev. "So, what will it do?"

"It is difficult to say for sure. Deathroot is used in a number of different poisons, but in its pure form it causes hallucinations. I actually have no idea what it would do when mixed with lyrium, it's an interesting question. I don't suppose you have a prisoner tucked away that we can test it on; perhaps the person that the gibbet outside the gates is being erected for?" At Alistair's glare, he shrugged; unholy amusement in his eyes. "Ah well, a pity. In view of what our charming bard tells me about the behaviour of the Templars, I would guess that it is causing mania. You must also take into account that, because their lyrium is being cut with another drug, they will be in a constant low-grade state of lyrium withdrawal, will they not?"

Maddy was shaking her head in denial. "There are plenty of Templars in the city, and on guard in the Chantry, who are behaving perfectly normally. This doesn't make sense."

The assassin kissed his fingers to her. "You married an intelligent woman, Alistair. I see that good fortune continues to dog your footsteps." The smile took on the edge of a sneer, but Alistair was too preoccupied to attach any significance to it. Zevran continued, "As you say, there are plenty of Templars around the city who do not appear to be suffering from any more mental issues than they usually do. There were, however, plenty of vials and boxes in the chest that were not cut with deathroot. The vials and boxes were labelled slightly differently, and I would guess that she is picking and choosing which Templars receive what doses."

Alistair stared at him, aghast. "She's working her field agents up into a frenzy. No wonder they're prepared to be so brutal. She's hand-picked her most committed mage-hunters and dosed them to the eyeballs."

Zevran smiled gently. "Oh, Alistair, you need to think bigger than that." He inspected his nails, picking at a slight flaw before raising his eyes back to the King. "Do you know what_ I_ would do, if I was her, and I wanted to smash down on users of magic?"

Alistair frowned, waiting. "Go on."

"I'd put some of those special doses out on the market. Let the hidden apostates and maleficarum buy them. Once the mania grips them, they will find it more difficult to hide, no? They will blow their cover."

"Maker's Breath, would she really be so devious?"

The assassin shrugged. "Who can say? I am only saying what I would do in her place. If I _really_ had a problem, not only with free magic, but with _all_ magic, I would send those little bottles to the Circle Tower also. Let those jittery Templars cut down manic mages who look like they _might_ be demon-possessed.

Alistair shuddered. "Zev, I'd forgotten how much you scare me, sometimes." Maddy's expression was equally horrified.

Zevran's smile twisted slightly, and his amber eyes gleamed. "Only my enemies need fear me, dear Alistair."

_-oOo-_


	25. Chapter 25

_-oOo-_

The next two weeks were a flurry of preparations. Bertram managed to see all those nobles who had remained for the Landsmeet, before they bolted back to their lands, and created a schedule of visits. Messages were sent ahead to those who had not attended the Landsmeet, including one to the Dalish, sent by the hand of an elven volunteer from the Alienage on the basis that he was less likely to be shot on sight. News of the Landsmeet's decision to improve the Alienages had been greeted with 'thanks, but we'll believe it when we see it', but the confirmation of Valendrian's seat on the Landsmeet was met with both astonishment and approval from the elves.

Any business in Denerim that actually required the King's presence must be completed. Eamon would be holding the fort in the capital, while the royal couple did their duty in the field; in preparation for this, the Arl buried poor Alistair under a mountain of work.

Leliana was busy trying to put Denerim agents in place who could report to her as she travelled; the trip would be the perfect opportunity for her to plant further agents across the country, and find those people who would be willing to send an occasional report in exchange for a bit of coin. At her request, Zevran spent a lot of time drifting through the city picking up any information he could. As Philippe had less work to do than any of them during this period, Zev took him along for the ride on many of these excursions, the pair of them dressing up or down to match their surroundings, and sampling the delights of the city. Zev also picked up the role of teaching a delighted Kallian the finer points of swordplay and assassination, and assisted in designing both some light armour that she could wear under clothes and hidden scabbards for her daggers.

While Alistair spent his time on matters of state, Maddy and Anders were tucked away in the royal quarters experimenting with magic. The Warden Mage's main concern was the way that her magic seemed to escape her control while she slept. He provided her with several exercises used by apprentices to set wards on their mind; so that their magic only operated with conscious intent. Anders might not agree with all the restrictions that surrounded mages, but he _did_ believe that magic should only be used under the control of a disciplined mind. Teaching this to an adult, one who has used magic naturally all her life, proved quite difficult, and the only thing that appeased him was that she seemed quite sure that she felt no demons at all in her dreams. This was unusual, all mages felt that tug of interest while they slept, at least until they learnt enough discipline to dampen down their light, so to speak. He was beginning to wonder whether demons were even drawn to her strange magic. It was a known fact that Creation magic attracted their attention less than any other school of magic, and, in a way, what Maddy did was Creation magic for vegetation.

On the final day before their departure, when Anders dutifully appeared at the royal quarters, he found Maddy still in a wrap and picking listlessly at her breakfast. Since Philippe had returned from Orlais, Maddy had been much more enthusiastic about breakfast. Her doting brother had coaxed an excellent Orlesian _pâtissier _into accepting a job at the Ferelden palace, and had paid his wage as their wedding present. Now that she was no longer faced with greasy meat so early in the day, Maddy had regained a hearty appetite, whilst Alistair had gone into raptures over superb cheese pastries.

So finding her pulling a croissant apart with a wan face was a notable thing. "Good morning, madam mage. Not feeling too good?" Anders stole a succulent-looking pastry from the tray on the way over to her, and put one hand on her forehead, while the other inserted flaky goodness into his mouth.

Maddy shrugged moodily. "Just tired, I suppose. I'll be glad to get on the road tomorrow just for the fresh air; I'm not used to being stuck indoors all the time."

Anders chuckled, moving his hand from her forehead to her wrist. "Not enjoying sitting indoors doing magical exercises, eh? Well, I can't blame you for that." He shifted his hand to the back of her head. "I can't find anything wrong with you, anyway; no fever, pulse is fine, and you've no wounds, poison or disease."

"I feel a bit queasy." She abandoned the mutilated croissant with an expression of distaste.

He moved his hand to her stomach. "Well, I can check, but if you had a stomach disorder I should have picked it up from- _Maker's breath_."

At his startled exclamation she looked up worriedly to where he was stood over her. He still had his hand on her belly, and his eyes were wide. "What? Am I ill?"

The mage collected his wits, and stepped back. "Would you like the good news, the good news or the good news?"

Maddy stared at him, the merest hint of hope in her eyes.

"The good news is that you aren't ill." He paused. "The other good news is that you're pregnant." Anders raised a cautioning hand as her mouth opened. "It's very, very early though so don't get too excited yet."

She rubbed a tentative hand over her flat belly. "Are you sure? My monthly is late, but not by much."

He nodded confidently. "Trust me. Even though, at this stage, babies barely even have a body to speak of, I can sense them just the same as I can sense you. It's a healer thing."

Maddy started to smile and then halted, brow furrowing, confused. "You said 'good news' three times."

Anders grinned at her. "I did, and again don't get ahead of yourself, it's very early days, I'd be surprised if you're more than four or five weeks. But if what I felt is right, and I think it is, it's _twins_."

_-oOo-_

Maddy gripped the rail of the balcony, nervously staring out over the gardens. She'd made her preparations carefully; now all she needed was her husband. He'd been in meetings all day, while she jittered around their rooms, hardly daring to go out in case she blurted her news to someone. Alistair had to know first. _Pregnant_. _I'm pregnant_. Her first instinct had been to not tell him, to keep it to herself until it was more certain. She knew what family meant to him, couldn't bear to think of his disappointment if it was snatched away, but she'd explode if she had to keep it to herself; she'd wind up telling him anyway, so it may as well be done properly.

It had all happened so fast. She couldn't have been married more than two weeks when she conceived. Alistair had said this would be difficult. Her head lifted and turned slightly, and a smile dawned. Even at this distance, she could feel the presence of the _Vhena'lath_. Lanaya had said that it would bring fertility to their line, and it was true; she'd felt its security and strength more and more every day. It was part of the family now, and always would be.

The click of the door heralded servants bearing steaming water. Alistair must be on the way up; she had ordered his bath to be ready for him as soon as he emerged. Today was a special day, and her husband was going to be pampered before she broke the news.

_-oOo-_

"My dear Zevran, when you suggested that we go out for our last night in civilisation, I really don't recall you saying we were going to a brothel." Philippe did not appear uncomfortable in these surroundings - as a nobleman, Zev would have been surprised if he was - but he didn't seem terribly pleased with the choice of entertainment for the evening, either.

"Come now, I know you said you did not like casual encounters, but buying sex is different, no? It is totally uncomplicated fun."

Philippe sighed. "True, but-" he turned away slightly, shaking his head.

A slim tanned hand slid up his cheek, turning him back to face the assassin. "But what, hmm? You do not want to release some of that pent-up desire? You deny yourself too much; all this restraint is not healthy." Zev's hand still lay on Philippe's cheek, and the elf noted that the prince had made no attempt to remove it.

Philippe's face was pensive. "I feel no desire to sleep with a stranger, bought or otherwise."

"Oh?" Zev stroked his thumb across a cheekbone, watching the other man swallow with a little difficulty. "There _is _an alternative, as you know."

Blue eyes gazed down into amber, all emotion suddenly hidden. "And you know why I can't accept it." Philippe gently removed the hand from his cheek. He brought it to his mouth and planted a soft, warm kiss on the palm before releasing it, sending a shiver down Zevran's spine. "So, for the moment, I'll bid you_ adieu_. Enjoy your evening, _mon ami_, I shall see you on the morrow."

The city was no place for a nobleman to walk alone; although Philippe was armed, his skill was, by the assassin's standards, negligible. So, cursing softly, Zev slipped out after him, moving quietly and using the dark to his advantage; if any of the night people decided his prince was an easy mark, they were in for a shock.

_Not _my prince, he told himself, as he slid silently through the night, his eyes on the slim, straight figure ahead. Decidedly _not_. They had spent a lot of time together these last three weeks, on the ship and then in the city; long enough to have scraped a little of the veneer from each other, to have seen a glimpse of the man beneath. What Zevran had seen was a man who not only used his polish and address to protect himself, but was also adept at using it to protect those around him. A man who was inexperienced in some of the seamier aspects of society, but who was not naïve – one didn't survive the Imperial Court and remain naïve.

Philippe was steadfast, loyal and caring; qualities as far beyond the reach of a Crow whoreson as the moon. Zev didn't deserve them, and he didn't dare reach for them. As soon as he discovered the price of this pursuit, he should have gone back to Antiva, he should _still_ go back to Antiva. Go back to the chase and the kill, back to the knife-edge between life and death. Go back to the aching void. Instead, he had returned to a country he had sworn he would not set foot in again, seen faces he would have been happy never again to lay eyes upon, opened wounds that should have remained sealed.

_Ah, Zevran, you don't learn, do you? The emptiness protects you, and it protects others from you._

The manner and method were irrelevant; blood flooding out to pool on the ground, or a column of blinding light. Both times he'd had to stand and watch. It was too much, too much for any man_. _

_I can't do it again, it isn't possible. _

_-oOo-_

A headache was niggling at him; the result of too many meetings, too many reports, too much time trapped in audience chambers, while people wheeled out their most ponderous language for the King. He'd had to meet with merchants today, which was a hundred times worse than meeting nobles. The lower down the social scale a person was, the more convoluted their speech became in front of royalty. He'd spent more time trying to untangle their meaning than he had dealing with their issues.

It would be a pleasure to get out on the road tomorrow, even with a massive entourage and tents bigger than most people's houses. Just being out in the fresh air would taste like freedom compared to the last fortnight.

Once he reached the sanctuary of the Royal apartments, Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. Merely having that door shut behind him loosened some of the tension. Having his wife come to meet him, soft brown hair tied back, green eyes sparkling, made it even better. He held out his arms, and she slipped into them with a murmur of contentment, head pressed to his chest. Maker, he was lucky.

After a moment, she raised her head and smiled up at him. "Well done, my dear. It's all behind you now."

"Thank the Maker for that." He followed the insistent tug of her hand into the bedchamber, and sighed with pleasure at the sight of a hot bath waiting. Alistair kissed Maddy's forehead gratefully before beginning to strip. "You're too good to me."

She grinned wickedly. "Not at all, it's entirely selfish. This is our last night at home for many weeks, and I want to make the most of it." She twisted her hair into a knot before unbuttoning her dress.

"Oh, really?" Life was definitely looking better on_ this_ side of the door. "Fantastic."

"I'm glad you agree." She dipped a toe in the water, balancing her weight with her hand on his arm, to combat the slippery stone steps. "I've ordered dinner privately up here in an hour. The evening is entirely ours." She sank into the water, and he navigated the steps with a warrior's balance, slipping into the warm water at the opposite end from her, happy just to relax for the moment.

_-oOo-_

The streets he walked seemed mean to his eyes - rickety houses of wattle and daub, their second storeys leaning together like old women over a fence, dirt and refuse wind-gathered in corners. And this was a better part of Denerim, only a few streets from the central market. Compared to the wide, paved boulevards of Val Royeaux, even the Palace District was as nothing. But the stench and grime of Val Royeaux was less visible, less honest. It lay in the minds and hearts of courtiers, in the manners and expectations of the Imperial Court.

Philippe cursed internally. He didn't want to think about Val Royeaux, about the Imperial balls and routs where he'd spent his youth. About the throng of nobles who flocked around the Empress. And around him; Celene's only brother, newly come to Court at the grand old age of eighteen. He had found easy friendships, and eager lovers, a bountiful banquet of pleasure; at Court though, nothing is what it seems, and all fruit, however beautiful, is rotten at its core.

It was that damnable elf, making him maudlin. He'd made his decision years ago, when he fled back to Ghislain, disillusioned and hurt. Nothing had changed. Nothing _should_ change. Certainly not for the sake of an Antivan assassin, of all things, the product of a world so corrupt it made Celene's court look pristine by comparison. Were it not for those pointed ears, Zevran could have danced circles around those who postured and posed, who schemed and plotted; those who played the so-called Great Game. How could there be trust, with one so devious?

The attack came from nowhere, his vision turned too far inwards to see it coming. Three men stepped out from an alley, surrounding him, knives flashing in their hands. Philippe reached for his pouch rather than his daggers, knowing he was not good enough to take all three, hoping to appease them. Before he could even undo the strings from his belt, a red line appeared across the throat of the one to his left, and the thug ahead of him doubled up, coughing, from a kick to the gut. A flash of blond hair cut in front of his vision, and a sword sizzling with runes engaged the knives of the third man. Philippe reached for his daggers, attracting the attention of the coughing thug, whose streaming eyes were coming back into focus, and whose hands were tightening on his weapons. There was no time to do more than engage him, keep him occupied; a moment later the man slumped to the floor, revealing his attacker. The whole thing had taken a minute or two at most. Zevran wiped his blades on a corpse at his feet, before re-sheathing them with a much-practiced movement.

Stunned blue eyes met gleaming amber ones. "You followed me?"

The assassin shrugged, cool and collected, as though he hadn't just slaughtered three men. "It is not safe for one such as you to walk alone in the city at night." His eyes travelled over the Orlesian. "Did they hurt you?"

"No… I…" Philippe tried to pull himself together, and failed utterly. It had all happened so _fast_, the elf had been a blur of vicious grace. He didn't know whether to be repulsed, awestruck or… He swallowed heavily; quite sure that being turned on was _not_ the correct response. His hands shook as he tried to put away his daggers, missing the sheath. Shock, no doubt. A slim hand closed over his, deftly sliding the blades in their sheaths. The sudden proximity of the lithe body, which had stepped close in order to do so, unmanned him even further.

Philippe breathed in sandalwood, and leather and a spicy scent that was pure _Zevran_, and lost his mind. His hand slid through corn-silk hair, cupping the assassin's face, drawing him closer. He dipped his head to meet that generous, sculpted mouth, soft full lips against his for the first time in years. The taste intoxicated him, mixing with the adrenaline flooding through him to create an irresistible cocktail. Zevran kissed him expertly, one slim, strong hand around his nape, the other smoothing over the hair at his temple, down past his ear and trailing over his throat.

The kiss deepened, and Philippe couldn't have said which one of them instigated the change. His mind had flown, he was just a bundle of senses radiating out from the hot mouth under his; the feel of silken lips, the smell of sandalwood and spice, the heady taste of man. He ached for more, and pressed forward, one hand on the elf's back, drawing him even closer, hard leather and buckles scraping on his soft leather jerkin.

It was Zevran who drew back, drawing the kiss to a close, softening his lips against that seeking mouth until it was a mere brush of contact, and then nothing. He stepped away, leaving Philippe trembling. "Come, _mio caro_, let us get you a drink. You are not accustomed to such violence, you are distraught."

"Zevran…" Philippe reached for him, and he took another step back, with a firm shake of his blond head.

"No, _il mio principe_, not like this. The blood and the death have inflamed you. This is well, and fine, for those who deal in such things, but you do not. I will not have you do something you will later regret."

Zevran was all brisk concern, any desire or emotion locked down tight. Philippe felt like a wreck in comparison; a tangled mix of yearning, confusion, rejection and curdled adrenaline. He swallowed, fighting sudden nausea, while his companion studied him with a professional eye. "Come, a stiff drink is what you need." Philippe allowed himself to be ushered forward, towards the flaming torches marking the inner city gates in the distance.

_-oOo-_

In the afterglow of a hot bath and a good dinner, Maddy led Alistair back to the bedchamber for Stage Three of her plan. Today was potentially one of the happiest of her husband's life, and she wanted it to glow like a bright, perfect jewel in his mind. Her mind skirted around the 'why' - that, if things went badly, if the Chantry found out about her, then Alistair's children would be his solace for losing his wife. Now was not the time to think of such things.

"You know, I had no idea I was marrying such a bossy woman. I do think Philippe could have warned me." Despite this mild, amused protest, he removed his bathrobe at her command, and stretched out on the bed, face down. She removed her own robe; this was best done naked.

Maddy reached for the small bottle she'd begged from Leliana, previously stashed near the bed, admiring the clean lines of her husband's body; the soft nape, the long muscles of his back, his tight bottom and muscular legs. The warm vibrant scent of lemongrass filled the room, and Alistair hummed softly as she smeared oil over his back, enjoying the warm skin under her hands. She rubbed the oil in deep, making a series of small circles with her thumbs, following the long, strong muscles from the dimple of his waist all the way up past his shoulder blades to the tight, weary muscles of his shoulders. She lingered there for some time, smoothing away the stress of too many audiences, before running her palms back down to his waist and starting again. He sighed happily, shifting slightly under her hands, sinking further into the bed.

Once she was satisfied that the muscles had loosened, she moved to his arms, first the left, before kneeling on the bed to do the right. From shoulders, down past the heavy muscle of his upper arms, the broad tight strength of his forearms, finally rubbing oil into the hard calloused palms, and blunt fingers.

From her kneeling position on the bed it was a simple matter to turn to hips and bottom and long, strong legs. She left his inner thighs until last, not wishing to distract him from the ease and comfort she'd created. Only once his breathing was easy and soft, rested but not sleepy, did she move to sit between his legs, running her oily hands gently up his inner thighs to where they joined, brushing the tip of her finger down to where the soft sac rested on the bed. He wriggled slightly, lifting to accommodate her, but she refused the invitation.

There was plenty of time for that, later. Now, in this soft, gentle moment between relaxation and stimulation, it was time to break the news. She put her hand to his left hip, exerting enough pressure to insist he roll over. Alistair obliged, stretching out on his back; his soft, brown eyes regarding her dreamily, one arm raised to invite her into her spot at his side. She snuggled in, holding her head up on her hand, watching his mellow, happy, beloved face. Her only regret with all this was that, although she knew he was fond of her, she didn't know whether he loved her, and now she never would. She would be the mother of his children, and he would love her for that. It would eclipse everything else.

"_Mon mari_, I have something to tell you." There was a lump in her throat it was difficult to speak around. For some reason, she was suddenly close to tears.

"Hmm?" He turned towards her and, at the emotion in her eyes, his gaze sharpened in concern. "What's the matter, what's wrong?"

Maddy shook her head, stroking his face with her free hand. "Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I have good news for you." He shifted on his side to face her, and rubbed a thumb over her cheek, obviously still concerned. Her emotion had welled up too quickly, if she didn't say it now, she would spoil it all. "Alistair, I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father."

There was a moment when he utterly failed to react, then his thumb on her cheek stilled, and his eyes widened in shock. "What? You're… really?"

She nodded. "So Anders tells me. It's so early, I can't even tell." Belatedly, she remembered the healer's caution. "He said we shouldn't get too excited yet, until another couple of months passes we can't be sure it will be alright."

Alistair's hand against her face was trembling; she closed her own hand over it reassuringly. He moistened his lips, "We're… we're going to have a child, a _baby_?"

Maddy looked at him anxiously. In this state, the extra revelation might be a bit much for him. "Er… actually, if what Anders says is correct," she gripped his hand tightly, preparing, "we're having two."

"T-t… _Maker's breath_, you mean… _twins_?" Alistair's awed gaze slipped down to her flat belly, and then back to her face. The sudden softness in his eyes spoke of heaven, and he wrapped her in his arms, drawing her to him. His lips pressed against her hair, and his voice was muffled, "Oh, my sweet love."

Maddy closed her eyes, tears pricking behind the lids from bittersweet emotion.

_-oOo-_


	26. Chapter 26

**_AN: *waves to all the lovely readers* I can't thank you enough for all the nice things you've said about my story so far. I adore hearing from you all, and try to answer every review. If I've ever missed one, then I apologise, please don't think me rude. I know I don't usually write an author's note, but I needed to let you all know that I have to change my schedule. I've got a little bit of writer's block, probably due to fear because I'm coming up to quite a critical point in the story (I'm several chapters ahead of you lot). As a result, my text buffer is slowly being eaten away chapter by chapter, and stress will turn a little writer's block into a LOT of writer's block, sooo for the moment I need to drop from publishing two chapters a week, to one chapter a week, until the block clears. I'd rather do this now; it's better than carrying on as I have and then suddenly finding that I can't offer you anything at all because my buffer is gone. I do hope you understand; I've tried to provide a stable publishing schedule from Day One, and this is the best way I can maintain one. love'n'stuff, Karen xxx_**

_-oOo-_

As the cavalcade of horses and carriages clopped and creaked through the dust of the West Road, Alistair breathed deeply, a wide grin splitting his face. Being on the road again was a joy, after so long. In truth, they could have timed this better; it was the end of Solace, and the weather was soft and mild, but three months from now autumn would be starting to close in properly. Their tour was likely to take them well into winter because it was starting so late in the season.

Their route had been planned carefully; they were taking the West Road initially, and then aiming for the Brecilian Passage to Gwaren. Hopefully a message would meet them there, saying where Lanaya's clan were camped, so that they could visit with the Dalish while the weather was still good. From there they would cut northwest to South Reach, and west to Lothering and Redcliffe. The plan was to make Waking Sea before winter set in, pay an official visit at Orzammar, and then set off home across the milder Coastlands, taking the hospitality of Highever and Amaranthine on the way.

This plan had, of course, been made before Maddy realised she was pregnant, and Alistair had absolutely no intention of risking her health. In the first rush of shock, last night, he had been ready to cancel the entire tour, but she had refused, saying that if he intended to wrap her in wool for eight months she would go insane. He saw the sense of that, but had insisted that at the very first sign that the travelling was too hard for her, the rest of the royal procession would be scrapped and she would be brought home in maximum comfort. One thing they had agreed upon was that they would keep this news to themselves for now. An official announcement would be made, once Anders pronounced her to be past the initial risk of miscarriage, or when she began to show, whichever came first.

Alistair still couldn't believe it, couldn't take it in. _I'm going to be a father_. It made him all tingly, but still didn't seem meaningful. Not when he looked at Maddy riding next to him, slim and upright, not appearing in the least bit pregnant. Horses had caused another tussle between them; he wanted her to ride in the carriage and she'd refused. Plenty of time for that when she must, she'd said. Alistair had relented, but he positively itched to shield her from harm. She had laughed at him, and kissed him affectionately. Don't worry, she'd said, the _Vhena'lath _protects our line, we lie safely in the crook of its branches. His wife's relationship with that tree was a little _creepy_ sometimes.

_-oOo-_

The countryside was so_ boring_. Flat and green, lumpy and green, flat and brown, lumpy and brown. It took no more than an hour, or so, for Zevran to lose interest in his surroundings and seek amusement closer to home. He moved his horse up beside Philippe's, hoping to while away some time with flirtatious wit.

"You ride very well, _il mio principe_." He injected the phrase with lascivious double meaning and dropped his voice to a purr, "I am hardly surprised."

His prince turned slightly in the saddle to look at him; deep blue eyes serious. No flirtatious fun to be had, then. "I'm glad you came to speak with me, Zevran. I wanted to thank you."

"Oh? What for?"

There was warmth in that azure gaze, enough warmth to spark a response deep within him. "For caring enough to follow me; for protecting me from harm. It's possible you saved my life."

Zevran shrugged dismissively, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "It was nothing, do not think of it."

Philippe shook his head, eyeing his companion with a hint of amused comprehension. "I disagree, _mon ami_, it meant a great deal to me. I am in your debt." He hesitated before continuing, "I also wanted to thank you for your restraint, and to apologise for testing it. I was not myself, as you wisely pointed out."

Zevran allowed an alluring smile to curve his mouth, pinning the other man with a bold look, hoping to get the conversation back on course. "Don't apologise, _mio caro_, I enjoyed it very much. However, I do hope that the risk of death is not a requirement for your kisses. It could prove something of a drawback, don't you think?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Philippe nudged his horse closer, so their knees pressed together. He reached across the gap, using a strap of the assassin's armour to pull them towards each other. Lips brushed gently across lips, astonishment preventing Zevran from responding. He heard the chatter of Leliana and Anders, riding behind them, stop abruptly. He was released almost instantly, and the horses pulled apart again.

"It would appear not, _mon cher_." Abruptly, Philippe spurred his horse to ride ahead with his sister and brother-in-law, leaving Zevran alone with his thoughts.

_-oOo-_

"Did you see that? " Anders pouted in what he hoped was an attractive way. "It's so unfair; everyone's getting kissed, except me."

Leliana ignored the hint. Maybe it _was_ a bit blatant. "Did you see the little ones before we left? Are they settled?"

Anders nodded cheerfully. He was out under the blue sky enjoying yet another type of freedom. He might not be getting kissed, but it was all good. "Marlene sorted it out with some others of the Collective. They've set up a sort of anti-Circle – somewhere that apostate children can be taught." He shook his head, wonderingly. "The Grand Cleric doesn't know what she's stirred up – the Collective have always been a set of loners who vaguely keep in touch. She's making them work together for the first time. Of course, that puts them at more risk too, they're more exposed. But at least working together they have a chance, and we were able to warn them about the spiked lyrium on the market."

"I assume you also sent a message to Vigil's Keep, warning them about it?"

"Of course. The Commander would string me up from the battlements by my tackle if I didn't warn our mages of things like that. I imagine Nathaniel is solemnly sniffing a whole series of blue bottles as we speak."

Leliana giggled. "I can imagine it; Nathaniel does _everything_ solemnly."

The mage glanced at her sidelong. "Oh really? Everything, eh? Which kind of _everything_ are we talking about?"

She gave him a reproving look that was belied by the twinkle in her eyes. "That's really none of your business, is it?"

Anders didn't like the sound of that at all. He couldn't, for the life of him, see why women went for that moody, broody, gloomy stuff, but there was no denying they did.

_-oOo-_

Camping was a curiosity to Maddy; in Orlais there were posting houses all along the main routes, so that one may rest in comfort and change horses. Here in Ferelden, not only were the inns they passed far too small to accommodate their entourage, but even most of the Banns lived in large farmhouses that were not designed to take so many guests. Therefore, those of the Banns that wished to meet them were invited to do so at the larger houses and castles they planned to visit. The rest of their nights would be spent on the road.

Alistair had laughed at her delight; the royal marquee, and the range of bell tents, erected for their convenience, hardly qualified as camping, in his view. The servants travelled ahead of them with the wagon containing the canvas, so they didn't even have the nuisance of waiting while their comforts were prepared.

Still, she thought, sitting in a folding chair of leather and wood, watching the servants prepare food, they were sleeping _outdoors_, so it was camping of sorts. It was wonderful to be out in the countryside. Since she had started magical exercises with Anders, her ability to sense nature had picked up amazingly. Sitting here, she could feel the earth beneath her, even through her shoes. She knew the health and wellbeing of every bush and tree in her immediate vicinity. She couldn't wait to walk in the ancient forest, to spread her senses over such primeval grandeur.

"Well, _ma soeur_, is the sylvan lifestyle to your taste?" She tipped her head back, to look at her brother as he approached her from behind. He slid into the seat next to hers, and looked at her enquiringly.

"Mm, very much so," she wiggled her eyebrows at him comically, "for reasons we can't discuss."

"Ah, perhaps Alistair should hire an artist of the Antivan school to paint you. You know the sort of thing; a dryad reclining in the forest wearing improbably transparent gauze, surrounded by attendant nymphs." Philippe warmed to his theme. "We could hang it in the throne room and watch your husband turn a fetching shade of crimson every time he walks in. And as an added bonus, the head of our worthy, but disapproving, Arl would explode." He appeared charmed by the notion.

"Speaking of Antivans," she said, firmly mooring her beloved brother to the dock of reality, and pulling him to shore, "I heard about that little interlude earlier. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Maddy had been shocked when Leliana told her in giggled whispers. Although Philippe had never expressed any loneliness, she was aware that her brother had been alone for many years. She should be delighted that, for the first time, he was showing an interest in someone; but Zevran? A confirmed killer, with a cold, calculating mind? It was the last thing she would have expected, and she feared for her Philippe.

She watched him anxiously, as he folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the darkening sky. After a moment, he sighed pensively, and turned his head to look at her. "I have no idea, _ma_ _chérie_. I seem to be experiencing isolated moments of madness. Perhaps it is nothing."

She clasped her hands together, a little agitated. There was a lot she wanted to say, but Philippe had always known his own mind and despite his chatter, kept his own counsel. She didn't have the right to lecture him. "Please be careful," she blurted out, unable to prevent this much, at least, from escaping, "he seems so dangerous, and frightens me a little."

His smile lit up his eyes. "In point of fact, that's the _one_ thing about which I have no concern. I think none of us need fear for life or limb in such company, _ma soeur_."

_-oOo-_

This was the time she liked best, no conversation, no expectations. No-one was wondering where she fitted in, or how they should speak to her. It was just her blades against an opponent; slashing, parrying, feinting. And Zevran was ridiculously skilled; Kallian considered herself lucky to have an opportunity to learn from him. And in more ways than one; he moved through the world with an utter disregard for his elven heritage, and everyone else treated him accordingly. There was something important to be learnt from that, and she watched him closely, hoping to pick up the trick of it.

They disengaged from the final manoeuvre, and Zevran stepped back, dipping his swords. "Well done, _il mio studente_, you have been practicing hard, recently, no? That combination is much improved."

She felt pleased heat rise in her face. "Thanks."

"We need now to ensure that you can fight against a style quite different from your own. Have you had much practice against a warrior?"

"Captain Cedric practices with me sometimes, when you or Leliana aren't available."

The assassin looked thoughtfully over her shoulder. "Hmm, I was rather thinking of someone more challenging…"

Kallian turned around to see the King, wearing a broad grin at the opportunity to spar, and already buckling on bits of armour. She snorted, "Him?" and then shifted nervously. "Um, sorry, Your Majesty."

"Alistair," he told her firmly, fastening the last pieces and reaching for his weapons.

Zevran's voice carried from behind her as they moved into positions. "Do not underestimate him. Never preconceive about your opponent; you know this, yes?"

She nodded, still sceptical. He was the _King_, and despite all the stories about the Blight, she was willing to bet he'd been protected by the others.

In the beginning, there was nothing to shake this belief; his moves seemed pedestrian and she used her manoeuvrability to great advantage, making her touches again and again.

Until, finally, Zevran intervened. "Come now, Alistair. She'll learn nothing if you treat her so."

The big warrior stepped back, digging the point of his shield in the ground. "I'll _hurt _her, Zev. Shield work isn't like your flourishing little swords; I can't just touch her with it."

Zevran huffed, exasperated. "And neither will big, hulking bandits who look to steal her charge away for ransom. Come, here is our excellent healer to ensure there is no permanent harm done." Anders had wandered up to the open section of camp they were sparring in, and was watching the fun.

"Yeah, I'll keep an eye on you both, make sure no-one dies." Anders grinned, little lights glittering around his fingers. "I have to admit I'm curious to see the Warden King fight."

Alistair shrugged and nodded, squaring up to her again. And suddenly everything changed.

His shield was everywhere, his shouts made her ears ring, disorienting her. Over and over she was forced onto the back foot, having to use her speed and agility to avoid having a shield slam into her, or the edge slice at her head. It was taking every ounce of concentration she had merely to stay on her feet, to avoid being menaced by that massive piece of iron and wood. Cedric had used a lot of these moves, but nowhere near as proficiently, and she began to see who had trained him; this man was a master at what he did, just as Zevran was.

When they disengaged, panting, there was scattered applause; their bout had drawn most of the King's Own over to watch, and even some of the servants. While Anders took a look at the unavoidable cuts and bruises she'd collected from that damned shield, Zevran came over, looking satisfied. "_Buono_, you did well. We can build on that performance."

"What?" Kallian gawped at him in amazement. "I was terrible; I hardly touched him at all."

The assassin shook his head, amused. "You stayed on your feet; it is more than most can do against him. I can teach you the moves you need to take him down." His amber gaze slid over to where the King was still panting, bent over with his hands on his knees, and a wicked grin slid across his lips. "It will be good for Alistair, too. Now that he is waited on hand and foot, he has become slow and fat. You used to be far better than this, back when you were not expected to hide from the action, _il mio amico_." Despite the friendly tone, there was an edge to the last part that she didn't understand.

It seemed Alistair had caught it too; he stood up, and gave Zevran a level look. "We all do what we must, Zev. You know that better than most."

The assassin smiled, but his teeth were shut hard. "And sometimes we choose not to do what we can."

The King stood staring at him a moment before turning away to strip off his armour. Kallian was left wondering what on Thedas had just happened.

_-oOo-_

The copies of her manuscript were pristine perfect, neatly written by the Tranquil on crisp vellum. They would have bound the pages together for her, if she had wished, but Dagna had elected to do that herself. Bookbinding was one of the arts she had taken the time and trouble to learn during her time here, and now was a chance to put it to good use.

She stayed up one night to do them, while the library was particularly quiet and she could spread out over one of the big tables, and by the time morning light slanted through the high windows, she was finished. There lay before her on the table a neat, delightful stack of slim volumes, each one with the title scored into the cover: _The Road to Orzammar – a History of the Lyrium Trade_.

Dagna beamed with pride and lifted the stack in her arms, ensuring that they were ordered correctly. She made her way over to the mages rooms and dormitories, starting with the Senior Mages. Not that every room was occupied now; she herself had recently moved out of the cramped Tranquil area, and into one of the empty rooms in this part of the Tower. The various Templars she passed en-route either greeted her, or ignored her, according to their temperament. She had worked hard to make friends with both mages and Templars alike, but some of them used their aloofness as another form of armour.

It pained her to see everyone so tense nowadays; in each room she entered, the conversation stopped abruptly when they heard her step in the halls, and only once they saw who it was did they relax again. In fact, everyone was so relieved by her innocuous presence that they thanked her profusely for the treatise, and promised to read it.

Dagna was sure that at least some of them would do so; the ones who had appeared the most tense; who had received copies with a small, careless, smudge of ink on the cover; the ones whose copy contained a single extra sheet of information. They, at least, would definitely all read what she had to say.

_-oOo-_


	27. Chapter 27

_-oOo-_

By the time the walls of Gwaren Castle came into view, they were all heartily sick of being on horseback. Gwaren was the most out-of-the-way stop on their route, which is no doubt why Bertram's carefully planned schedule sent them south first. Making this trip at the end of the tour would have been a true endurance test. A complement of knights met them and escorted them in, and the Teyrn Bryland was waiting to greet them as they clopped into his courtyard.

"Greetings, Your Majesties. I trust you had a good journey?" The Teyrn waved forward grooms to assist the ladies to dismount. They rushed to the aid of Maddy and Leliana, and completely ignored Kallian. The instant she was on the ground, Maddy frowned and pointed an imperious finger at her attendant. The abashed groom hurried over, just in time for a viciously-grinning Kallian to dismount unaided, much to his discomfiture.

The Teyrn ignored this exchange utterly, keeping his attention on his King, who was struggling to keep his face straight. "Yes thank you, Bryland. However, we've all been on the road long enough to be dreaming of a hot bath, I think."

The Teyrn laughed. "I don't doubt it, sire. The servants will show you all to your rooms, and see to your comforts immediately. Most of your own servants have already arrived, and are ready to serve you; I'll get someone to show your elves where to go."

There was a short, pregnant pause, while everyone tried not to look sidelong for Zev's reaction.

Alistair hovered somewhere between amusement and anger for a moment, and finally settled for the type of barbed diplomacy that he had only learnt since taking the throne. "Kallian is the Queen's personal, and trusted, attendant, and we will require a room adjoining ours for her." He beckoned Zev forward, "Bryland, may I introduce Signore Zevran Arainai. The name might be known to you," he added dryly, "after all, only a very small number of people may truthfully be said to have faced down an arch-demon."

_I certainly wasn't given a chance to do so. _The thought had a sour tinge to it.

Bryland flushed and made haste to apologise. "Signore Arainai, of course. You must forgive me; I didn't recall your face from the Blight-end celebrations."

Zevran rose to the occasion magnificently, offering a flourishing bow. "Do not be concerned, Your Grace. It is probable that you never met me. I left your fine country before the celebrations began, and have only recently returned."

Bryland's Teyrna, Annis, hastened to brush past any unpleasantness. "You are all very welcome, Your Majesties, Your Highness and Sers. Please, come inside and remove the road dust. I'll have some wine and ale sent to all your rooms, so you can slake your thirst while you bathe. Dinner will be ready shortly."

_oOo-_

The luxurious pleasure of bathing after a long journey occupied everyone's attention until dinner, and the Teyrn's servants were kept busy, lugging buckets of water to the guest rooms. When they gathered to dine, they found that, unlike Alistair, the Teyrn kept an old-fashioned house. A High Table stood on a dais at the far end of the room, with two long tables at right angles to the dais, running the length of the room. Guests, senior members of the household staff and guard officers sat above the salt, while the soldiers and servants sat below. At the Royal Palace Alistair had only used this formation on two occasions; his coronation and his wedding.

Naturally the King and Queen were given place of honour at High Table beside their hosts. Philippe was also escorted to a place of honour, recognising his standing as an Imperial Prince. The King's personal court – Leliana, Anders and Zevran - all held positions at the very top of one of the other tables, together with the local Banns in attendance. Alistair was amused to note that Kallian was situated above the salt, together with Captain Cedric; it would appear Bryland's prejudices had, temporarily at least, crumbled in the face of his King's mild reproach.

It felt strange to be at Gwaren; Alistair had never been here before and it was difficult to forget that this had been Loghain's personal stronghold. It was a grim, grey fortress overlooking a town dominated by its lumber mill, and a sprawling tangle of fishing villages that ran along the coastline. The cold stone walls and formal manners appeared to be having an effect on his, usually vivacious, Queen; she had initially been in high spirits at the prospect of sleeping in a bed again, but was now looking a little crushed, although valiantly attempting to hold a conversation with the Teyrn.

"We have arranged no entertainments for you tonight, Your Majesties. We assume that you will be tired after your journey." The Teyrna's words were music to Alistair's ears. "Tomorrow we plan to hunt in the forest, if that is to your liking?"

"I'd be delighted, Lady Annis." He wouldn't, but the whole point of these visits was to spend time with his nobles. It suddenly occurred to him that, in addition to his Orlesian wife and brother-in-law, Warden Mage and Orlesian bard, he'd also added an Antivan to his entourage. Maker, it's no wonder they thought him disconnected from Ferelden; but who else was he to trust? The nobles would flock around him, if he gave them half a chance, but it would be impossible to tell friend from sycophant. Everyone wanted something from the King. Added to which he seemed to be accumulating secrets almost daily; allowing outsiders too close would be dangerous.

Alistair pushed these thoughts aside and smiled at the Lady. "I can only hope I won't be mocked for my lack of skill. I'm terrible with a bow."

Her answering smile was warm and disbelieving. "I feel sure that is false modesty, sire." If he was going to be subjected to this level of empty politeness for several days, he'd need an outlet of some kind. No doubt they'd be shocked if he beat a boar to death with a shield out of sheer frustration.

"Not at all; once you see Leliana taking down game with a single shot, you'd realise just how bad my fumbling efforts are."

"Ah yes, the lady Leliana. Which part of Orlais does she hail from, sire?" There it was, as expected; the slight barb, and thankfully, an easy way to deal with it.

"Actually, she doesn't hail from Orlais at all. She's Ferelden-born." The lady's eyes widened slightly. Hiding a smile, Alistair left her to think about that and addressed his dinner for a time.

_-oOo-_

The Teyrn had also offered the pleasures of the hunt to a horrified Maddy. She rode very well, but had no ability with weapons of any kind, and there was another, bigger, problem. One that was likely to appal these strong, hearty Fereldens, who encouraged their noblewomen to fight and hunt, and took pride in their accomplishments. She'd excused herself from the proceedings on the grounds of having no facility with weapons, but for the first time it occurred to her that Alistair might be ashamed of her lack of fortitude.

After dinner, when they were free to retire to their chambers and prepare for bed, she tentatively raised the issue of not wishing to hunt. Alistair's response was typical of him.

"So, what you're telling me is… you're Orlesian." He finished unbuttoning his doublet and shrugged it off. He turned to her, a smirk smeared across his face. "That's shocking news; shall we let the herald know?"

Maddy was vaguely affronted. "What does being Orlesian have to do with anything?"

He tugged his shirt over his head and flung it aside. "Most Ferelden noblewomen learn to bear arms. Most Orlesian noblewomen don't. All Antivan women don't." Alistair shrugged. "I'm not sure what's bothering you. Decline the hunt; provided I attend, you won't be expected to. Or come along for the ride and don't hunt. You'll enjoy riding in the forest."

One of those options offered a way out, but this was going to come up sooner or later, so she may as well make a clean breast of it. "I'm squeamish," she blurted.

He was in the process of unbuttoning his trousers, but at this his hands stilled and he looked up, surprised. "What?" He stared at her, astonished and then shook his head in a quick negation. "You can't be. The night you were attacked; you were _covered_ in blood."

"I _fainted_," she retorted. "Poor Leliana had to virtually _carry_ me."

He cocked his head, looking at her. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Really?"

Maddy scowled, ashamed. "You're laughing at me. I knew it. Philippe always laughed at me when we were children. All these tough Ferelden nobles will mock me. I'll let you down."

Alistair snorted, still amused. "Nonsense. Look, I was surprised because of the women I've spent time with, that's all. I travelled with Leliana, and Melissa and Morrigan; they were all tough as old boots." He crossed the room to her and pulled her into an embrace. "They thought nothing of skinning and butchering a deer; if we didn't hunt, we didn't eat." She laid her cheek against his warm chest, slightly comforted. "The chances of you having to do that are pretty slim, right?" He lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to look up at him. His hazel eyes were warm and… something else, something that she didn't dare believe. "And, just so you know, you could _never_ let me down."

_-oOo-_

The plan was carefully made, but not foolproof. The restricted movements of the remaining Equitarians and Isolationists made things doubly difficult. The notes in Petra's book had informed her only what her own movements should be. No-one else would act at that time, and she didn't know what instructions any others had received, or indeed, who had received them, although she had her suspicions. In this way, Dagna's scheme was kept as quiet as possible.

She fidgeted throughout her stint in the library, although usually it was a rare pleasure, a freedom that was denied for the rest of the day. Ten minutes before the end of the session she arose from her seat; across from her another mage raised his head, hard eyes glaring. She was reasonably certain he wouldn't be among the faces she would see later. "Where are you going?"

"Back to my room, I'm tired and my eyes ache." He grunted and returned to his own book. Petra quietly left the library, doing her best to appear meek and unassuming. She went, not to her room but to the Tranquil quarters. There, she told Owain that Dagna had sent her; there was a box of supplies the dwarf needed in the storerooms, and she had been asked to collect them. Sure enough, Owain produced a closed crate, a little heavy but not unmanageable. Petra thanked him, and set off to the magical storeroom.

There was a Templar on the door of the storeroom nowadays; no mage was trusted to secure these supplies. He showed no especial interest when she said that Dagna needed the supplies she was carrying. This was not unusual, and the dwarf received far more licence than any mage. She passed into the tunnels without comment.

A little later, another Templar relieved him, and shortly after that another mage arrived, this time carrying a satchel.

_-oOo-_

Of the royal party, only Leliana and Philippe wished to attend the hunt, while Alistair was merely resigned to doing so. Anders cheerfully claimed that blowing up game spoilt it for everyone, and announced his intention of spending the day in town, snooping out potential recruits for Leonie. Maddy said she wished to quietly explore a little of the neighbouring forest with Kallian. Alistair promptly tried to assign a group of guards to attend her, which earned him a displeased grimace. Surprisingly, it was Zevran who rescued her. Having watched, with undisguised amusement, the antics of the various daughters and sisters of the local Banns; who had turned out en masse for the hunt and were putting out their best efforts to captivate Philippe, Zevran suddenly offered to act as the Queen's escort. This earned him a grateful look from Maddy, as even Alistair couldn't cavil at the protection she would receive from Zev and Kalli combined, and a reproachful one from a rather harassed-looking Philippe. The smile he returned to the latter was bland in the extreme; it seemed the besieged Prince was to be left to the mercies of these predators.

Once the hunt had clattered out of the courtyard, with mabari and other hounds trotting at their side, the remaining guests had the space to make their own preparations. In short order, Maddy, Zev and Kallian were mounted and able to depart. Kallian was, for once, openly armed and armoured, and looking thoroughly happy about it.

_-oOo-_

Zev had no idea what had gone wrong. They had skirted the edge of town, ridden past the logging camp to the edge of the forest… and then suddenly the Queen appeared in agony, slumped over her horse, crying. He slipped off his own horse and went to her, not at all sure how to assist. "_Mia signora_, what is this? Tears? Are you ill, in pain? Tell me."

Maddy was obviously distraught, tears poured down her face, and she looked revolted, as though seeing something awful, a corpse or a monster. "They're _hurting_ them, make them stop, please make them stop." Her weeping was heartbroken.

Zev looked around, puzzled. Nothing; there was no-one hurting anyone. Just the edge of the forest where it backed up against the lumber camp, fresh, raw tree-stumps giving way to tall trunks; the rasp of saws. He cocked an eyebrow at Kallian, but she looked equally bewildered.

Maddy dashed her hand across her eyes, and then gripped the reins tightly, suddenly determined. "I'll stop it _myself_," she declared, and dug her heels in, her horse surging forward under the pressure. Zev cursed fluently, remounting fast, as Kallian followed her mistress. He spurred his horse, pursuing the two women as they cut through the ragged stumps to the true edge of the forest. By the time he arrived he could hear Maddy's voice, rising in imperious demand.

"You will stop this atrocity. _Maintenant_!"

The lumberjacks stared at her, astonished. Zevran didn't blame them; what, in Andraste's name, did she think she was doing?

One of the jacks stepped forward, bowing awkwardly in view of her obvious nobility. "My lady, we're working to the Teyrn's orders." He looked worried, and well he might; caught between his Teyrn's commands and this noble lady seated on a horse before him, riding whip clenched tightly in her hand. "Do you bring word from him, Your Ladyship? If the Teyrn's wishes have changed…"

Maddy appeared on the very edge of reason, and Zev judged it time to intervene. "Your Teyrn's orders stand, please continue. Madeleina, we must leave these men to their task, come." He reached for her bridle, while the men gasped and bent the knee. Zevran cursed his indiscretion; he was not usually so stupid.

"Y-your Majesty?" The man who had previously addressed her appeared terrified by the potential consequences of refusing her command. Kalli was on Maddy's other side, speaking quietly to her, and Zev still held her bridle. He _had_ to get her away, she surely must appear unstable, and gossip travelled fast.

"A misunderstanding, do not concern yourself. The lady had a message for another, she mistook who you were." Zev tightened his grip on her bridle and inexorably led her away, Kalli still murmuring on her other side, keeping her calm. Maddy was arguing back, gabbling about the trees. Nothing made any sense to him.

"_Mia regina_, you must contain yourself. I do not know what has upset you, but you will cause a political incident if you continue with this foolishness. Furthermore," he continued dryly, "I have no doubt that your husband will blame me for not preventing it. Therefore, I am taking you back to the castle, so you can rest and recover. Now dry your eyes and hold your head high. The townspeople and castle servants should not see their Queen weep." His bracing advice seemed to steady her; she made an effort to do as he asked, but the renewed rasp of saws in the distance made her cringe. The sooner he got her out of sight, and discovered what on Thedas just happened, the better.

_-oOo-_

It would be some time before the hunt returned, and the castle was quiet. Zevran had taken complete charge of their return, pushing the reins of their horses into the hands of grooms, and sending servants to bring the Queen refreshments. He had quickly ushered both her and Kallian into a side chamber on the ground floor and closed the door. Maddy tried to speak, and he held up an imperative hand to stop her. "Hush, not a word until the servants have been and gone. I would guess you do not want flapping ears or prying eyes for this conversation, no? Trust me; I will know if anyone still stands near the door."

Maddy found that she did trust him; for the first time seeing why he had piqued the interest of her brother. So she obediently waited, while servants brought ale and tea, and a plate of cake and fruit. Only once they had gone, and Zevran was satisfied no-one still lingered, did he break the silence. "So, Madeleina, the cutting of the trees upset you? It is strange, and I would like to know why, so that if something like that happens again I can better deal with it." He shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes were careful, fixed upon her. "I have no right to ask though, so if you wish to keep your secrets, I will understand."

"And I _will not_." Kallian exploded away from the wall she had been propping up, pent up nervous tension driving her forward. "How can I protect you if you keep things from me? She stood before her mistress, hands twitching, eyes glaring. "Don't you _trust_ me? Because if you don't, then I'm going back to the Alienage, _today_."

"I'll tell both of you." Maddy's voice was dull; she was tired beyond belief of this knowledge and these feelings. The heightened sensitivity she had gained had nearly broken her today; she could still feel the pain of healthy, living wood bitten by the axe and the saw.

Maddy glanced up at her bodyguard, and then away, ashamed of her own nature. She began to explain, her voice a weary monotone, "I only found out myself a few weeks ago, Anders worked it out. I'm…" she stopped, frowned, not wanting to use the obvious word, "… a bit odd. I can do a kind of magic," she heard Zevran suck in breath in a sudden hiss, and hastened to continue "only on plants, not on people. Anders says I'm not really a mage, for that reason." She glanced up at Kallian's thunderstruck face and Zevran's expressionless one. "Anders has been teaching me better control, but it has brought heightened sensitivity, I-I could hear the trees… their pain, the emptiness as they died." She shuddered and wiped away an errant tear. "It was horrible."

"Does Alistair know? And Philippe?" Zevran's voice was sharp, imperative. "They know that you have magic?"

She nodded. "Yes, but only them, Anders and Leliana. No-one else." Her gaze was imploring, begging them to understand. "I expected Alistair to hand me over to the Chantry, but he wouldn't. I begged him to set me aside, and he refused that too. If it becomes known… his throne, the stability of the country is at risk, please I need to know that you-"

Zevran cut her off, slashing his hand in the air, his head cocked, listening. "The hunt returns. No more for now. Don't worry, I will say nothing."

Kallian was chewing her lip, obviously worried, but she nodded quickly. "Come on Maddy, we'll slip upstairs before they come in. You need to wash your face before Alistair sees you."

It was the first time that she had used the King and Queen's first names, and Maddy was strangely moved by it. She jumped to her feet and hugged the startled elf, before rushing over to press a kiss to Zev's tattooed cheek. "Thank you both. Thank you." She allowed herself to be ushered out and up the stairs to her chamber, not seeing the unusually vulnerable look on the assassin's face, before he smoothed his expression, and strolled out to meet the returning hunt.

_-oOo-_


	28. Chapter 28

_-oOo-_

It was quiet up here, and cool. From his perch on the battlements, Zevran could hear the minstrels and see the lights blazing through the windows of the Great Hall, but was separate from it, remote. A half moon hung in a navy sky, a few clouds scudding past it. Despite the mild summer evening, he shivered, missing the heavier warmth of home. What was it about this cold, smelly country that sucked you in, made you _part_ of everything? At home in Antiva, or even in Orlais or Rivain, he could isolate himself, protect himself, but here…

Here, everyone expected something from you; they demanded nothing, but expected you to live by their values: honour, loyalty, trust. It was so dangerous, stripped you bare, left you wide open, and yet… The assassin sighed, looking up at the moon. _You're a fool, Zevran; you know you can't be the man he wants you to be_. He squirmed uncomfortably, not liking this melancholy mood. The Queen's soft, grateful kiss had touched him more than he wanted to admit, called to a part of him he thought the Crows had obliterated long ago. He'd taken Alistair aside after the hunt, had told him, swiftly and unemotionally, what had happened. He'd observed the man's conflicted fear. Once again, the human had been given the Maker's own luck, and _once again_ he was in danger of throwing it away. Zevran gritted his teeth; if Alistair was stupid enough to fritter away yet another caring woman then, this time, he'd slice that foolish, idiot throat open for sure, King or no King.

_Why? Why do you care? Madeleina's a sweet girl, but she's nothing to you, Zevran_.

_She trusted me_. _He… they all trust me._

_-oOo-_

The deer brought down by the hunt had not been the most sought-after prey today. Here, in the Teyrn's Great Hall, the pursuit continued unabated. Alistair and Maddy did their best to hide their smiles, but the sight of all the local eligible ladies, manoeuvring to dance with, sit with and generally lay claim to the handsome brother of both the Ferelden Queen and Orlesian Empress, was proving somewhat irresistible to their Majesties. Lady Annis' younger sister Marna was generally held to be the front-runner, having had the advantage of being seated next to Philippe at dinner.

Watching the Prince's famed urbanity tested to the utmost by the bevy of simpering, giggling lovelies, Alistair couldn't remember the last time he'd been more entertained. The memory of his new brother's unholy glee when _he_ had been hotly pursued by what, at the time, felt like most of Orlesian society, merely added spice to the proceedings. Philippe had, eventually, taken pity upon the Ferelden King and rescued him. Eventually. Alistair felt it was probably his filial duty to return the favour… eventually.

In the meantime, he squeezed his wife's hand under the table, deeply thankful to no longer be a marriageable prospect.

_-oOo-_

Drawing Leliana away from a decent set of minstrels was not an easy task, but with a certain amount of determination, Anders managed it. You'd think that finding a place to talk privately in such a large castle would be easy, but it seemed that virtually every word any of them said right now could cause a political incident, so every servant and every guard was a risk. When he'd agreed to this position, he'd had no idea politics was so _complicated_.

Holding a conversation in the ward was out of the question. He'd checked there before bagging the bard's company, and it seemed every dark corner contained soldiers trysting with maids. The keep itself had guards on every corner, and servants wandering around with piles of linen and esoteric bits of cleaning or cooking equipment. Suggesting they talk in one of their bedchambers was certainly appealing, but for all the wrong reasons. This was business.

So, he took her up to the ramparts where, although guards patrolled, they could at least see them coming long before they were in earshot. Anders stopped at a strategically quiet spot and leant against the battlements, facing her.

"So, Anders, what was it you wanted so urgently?" There was a disturbing twinkle in Leliana's eye that suggested she had quite the wrong idea about this assignation. He groaned inwardly at such a wasted opportunity, but needs must.

"You know how I went into town today, to see if I could drum up any Warden recruits?" She nodded, the twinkle replaced with an intent look. "Well, it was market day, and the Formari were running a large stall."

Now he had her attention. "The Formari? The Tranquil traders? Did they have news of the Circle?"

He shook his head, then realised she might not see properly with the moon behind him. "No, I did ask, but none of them have been to the Circle in months. The interesting thing is though; they had a _lot_ of stock."

It was clear from her expression that this information didn't hold the same significance for her that it did for him. Before she could ask the obvious question, he continued. "Magical items and runes are always rare; you know this, right? Most of what you see in the shops originates from the Formari, who in turn receive it as deliveries from the Circle Tower. You see, there's something about the Rite of Tranquility; no-one's really sure why, but severing a person's connection to the Fade makes them significantly better at the creation of magical items and runes." He frowned considering, "I've never really thought about it before, but perhaps it's for the same reason that dwarves can work raw lyrium so well – they have no connection to the Fade either."

Leliana opened her mouth to speak, but before she could follow this side-trail, Anders ploughed on, "_Anyway_, because the Tranquil have this ability, one of their main roles in the Circle Tower is the creation of magical items and runes for sale. It's the main income of the Circle. Not that the Circle receives the benefit," he added bitterly. "It mostly ends up in Chantry coffers."

The bard finally got a word in, "So, the fact that the Formari are carrying a lot of stock means what, exactly?"

Anders shrugged. "I'm not precisely sure, but it's _odd_, more so than an outsider would think. Either the Circle Tower has utterly cleaned out its magical stores to raise money…"

"Or, our good friends in the Chantry have the Tranquil working like slaves, no?" The smooth, honeyed voice came from the darkness, and Anders swung his head from side to side, fruitlessly seeking the source, until the assassin leapt lightly down from the battlements, showing himself.

Leliana frowned at him disapprovingly. "You were there all the time?"

Zevran smiled at her with a hint of mockery. "And you should have known, my dear. What if it was not I?"

She ignored the barb with the ease of long practice, chewing her lip thoughtfully, instead. "I think I'll go see the local Chantry tomorrow. Alistair said the good Templars had been given remote postings; it doesn't get much more remote than Gwaren. Maybe I can find something out."

Anders goggled at her in feigned incomprehension. "There are _good _Templars?"

_-oOo-_

It seemed the bard and the mage had only just departed when Zevran heard the approach of another set of familiar footsteps. Leaning his arms on the battlements, he spoke without turning his head. "I had no idea just how popular this part of the castle was. Are the rest of the Teyrn's guests on their way up also?"

"I sincerely hope not, _mon doux. _I have but this moment escaped, thanks to the good offices of _mon cher frère_. Have I mentioned how much I adore him? He extricated me from the clutches of those… those _prédateurs_ by sending me to find Leliana so that she may sing for the Teyrn."

Zevran turned his head to regard Philippe with a slight smile, soothed by the light-hearted tone he adopted. "You've missed her, _amico mio_. I think she was returning to the entertainments, if you wish to speak with her."

The Prince's expression was reproachful. "You would send me back into that den of vipers? After you left me at their mercy all day, too," he shook his head, mournfully. "I thought you only killed people, I didn't realise you were cruel to them, also."

The elf smirked, warming to the flirtation. He turned to face his adversary; his weight on his elbows on the battlements behind him, his body stretched out, long and lean. "And what was I to do to prevent them, _il_ _mio principe_?" He dripped out his words, slow and syrupy as honey. "Should I have reached out for you in the courtyard, hooked my fingers in your armour, and pulled you in for a kiss? Should I have ravished you before their eyes, plundered you until they had no doubt where your tastes lie?" His words and his tone were having a clear effect on the man before him, even as his reference to Philippe's own actions brought a flash of recognition. "Nothing would please me more, but you have made your position clear, have you not?"

Philippe took a couple of steps forward, so he stood astride the elf's outstretched legs. There was a disturbing amount of warmth in his eyes and his faint smile. "I know full well what my requirements are. Far better than you do, I suspect. Which reminds me: I understand I have, once again, to thank you; my sister told me the care you showed for her welfare today."

Zevran levered his body back to a fully standing position and turned his head away from that expression, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "It was nothing; do not think of it."

A slim, beautifully-manicured hand slid over his jaw, inexorably turning his head back to centre. One finger traced his tattoo; dark-blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "But I do think of it. Such things mean a great deal to me."

Zevran swallowed hard, as those stunning eyes dropped to his mouth. There was no excuse this time, no heightened battle sense to muddle their judgement. Just Philippe's lips hovering above his, and that hand still tracing over his cheek. But in gratitude? No. That did not feel right. "You do not have to do this. It is not necessary, it was nothing, truly."

The mouth hovering ever closer to his smiled, the blue eyes glinted with amusement. "I do not have to do what, _bel homme? _Experience the pleasure of kissing a gorgeous man? One who took the time to assist in unearthing the details of my sister's attempted assassination, despite not even knowing her? Who followed me and protected me from my own stupidity, and was then honourable enough to protect me from myself? Who saved my sister's reputation today, a reputation upon which her Crown rests? You are absolutely right, _mon doux_; I don't _have_ to do anything at all."

Philippe's mouth closed over his before Zevran could even begin to retort, to refute such an unrealistic view of him. The lips moving over his were soft and tender, but experienced, drawing out a response immediately, while the hand on his cheek slid up to thread gently through his hair. He couldn't recall ever being treated so before; it was almost… respectful. It made him feel cherished, which was foolish and dangerous, but nevertheless produced a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with lust. Zevran reached out, intending to pull the other man into a deeper kiss, but instead his traitorous hands whispered over soft auburn hair and smooth-shaven jaw, making no attempt to dominate. And then it was over, Philippe slowly but deliberately withdrawing the heat of his mouth, leaving the elf unusually dumbfounded.

The prince smiled down into his shocked eyes and dropped a small affectionate kiss on Zevran's forehead. "I should return to the festivities, do you wish to join me? No? I do not blame you. I shall, no doubt, see you tomorrow then, _mon cher_." On that note, Philippe departed, strolling along the ramparts and down the stairs like a man without a care in the world.

_-oOo-_

The Gwaren chantry was a sizable building of incomparable ugliness. It seemed to be a feature of the area to ensure that nothing pleased the eye, and the chantry, with its grim walls and salt-peeled door was no exception. Leliana eased the door open tentatively, so unwelcoming was the exterior. Yet, inside, there was the usual atmosphere of peace and harmony, tinged with the familiar scents of incense and candlewax. The priestess who came to greet her was a calm-eyed woman in her forties, who introduced herself as Revered Mother Cassia.

"Is there something I can do for you, my lady?" she asked, taking in Leliana's fine dress.

"I merely wanted to meet you, Your Reverence; my name is Leliana. I spent several years as a lay sister, you understand, so while we are travelling all over the country, I wish to take the opportunity to visit as many chantries as I can."

"You are travelling with the King's entourage, Lady Leliana? You are very welcome here; may I offer you some tea?"

Over tea it quickly became apparent that the Revered Mother, although a sensible woman whom Leliana liked very much, could offer nothing in the way of helpful information. The Formari traded here regularly, but she had no personal dealings with them. Occasional field Templars came through chasing apostates, but Mother Cassia was aware of no unusual activity. Only as Leliana had thanked the priestess, and taken her leave, did an unexpected breakthrough occur.

"Sister Leliana?"

She turned toward the voice and saw a dark-haired Templar with deep, brown eyes and the swarthy skin of Rivaini blood. "Ser Bryant? Oh, I'm so pleased to see you alive. I thought you died at Lothering."

"Very nearly; I was one of the last to leave. I apologise, my lady, I addressed you incorrectly. You are no longer a Sister, are you? I heard that you stayed with the Hero throughout the Blight. Please accept my sincere congratulations and thanks; your courage is highly commendable."

Leliana laughed musically. "I cannot take credit for that, Ser; the whole adventure was enormous fun. I would not have missed it for anything."

The Templar's smile was warm and understanding. "You were always so, as I remember. And what is your latest adventure, if I may ask?"

"I travel with the King and Queen. You remember Alistair, of course? He was with us in Lothering."

"Yes, a fine young man, as I recall. Who would have guessed that he would eventually become King?"

She twinkled at him. "Certainly not him, that's for sure. If I may ask, Ser Bryant; when did you come to Gwaren? Surely a Templar of your experience and talents would be better utilised in a less remote area."

His brow furrowed slightly, although his demeanour remained calm. "My appointment was quite recent. Until two months ago, I was stationed at the Circle Tower. There were… a number of reassignments when Knight-Commander Greagoir retired."

"I had heard that, actually. Have you heard news from the Circle since? We have heard nothing since Alistair and Maddy's wedding."

Ser Bryant seemed a little disturbed at the casual way that Leliana invoked the names of their rulers, but answered her question politely. "Very little of substance, I'm afraid. There are rumours, but it's not my place to recount Chantry gossip."

Leliana remembered well not only the upright moral standards of this man, but also how honest, helpful, and sensible he had been in Lothering, even in the face of Morrigan's thinly-veiled taunts. This was a true servant of Andraste, not a Chantry puppet. "Ser Bryant, gossip may be all we have right now. The King is very worried about the state of the Chantry, and I suspect you know a little of why. Will you come speak to him?"

He looked taken aback. "To the King? Surely that is not necessary."

She cocked her head, regarding him. "Well, you can speak to me, if you really prefer, but Alistair may have questions for you that I have not thought of. I'd rather he heard what you think."

The Templar crossed his arms in the traditional salute and bowed from the waist. "As you wish, my lady."

_-oOo-_

Ser Bryant followed the former lay sister through the Teyrn's castle, wondering what on Thedas the King could possibly want with him. He remembered the fair-haired young man - in his battered armour, Templar shield strapped to his back - as a follower; ever behind the shoulder of the other Warden. The young woman, later to sacrifice her life to slay the Archdemon, had a presence that demanded your attention, with her shock of short black hair and bright brown eyes that pinned you down and assessed you. The man destined to be King had demonstrated no such instant charisma.

And yet, when he followed Leliana, past the King's Own guards and into the comfortable parlour set aside for the King's comfort, there was little doubt which man here ruled Ferelden. There were four people already in the room; the first to impinge upon his senses was a mage, possibly the most potent he had ever encountered. The power emanating from him was enough to set off every trained instinct the Templar had, and it took a conscious effort to remain calm. Later, once the introductions had been made, Ser Bryant was thankful he'd retained his self-control; a Grey Warden who was also the King's personal Court Mage was not to be trifled with. For the entirety of the visit, as that palpable power rolled over him, he continued to remind himself of that fact.

His eyes were drawn next to what was undoubtedly his King; his attempt to kneel was waved away with a smile and a gesture to take a seat. Despite his easygoing manners and warm smile, he wore his power easily, and his Theirin blood was unmistakable. The elegant gentleman with a distinctly Orlesian air to his clothes and manner was introduced as the Queen's brother. The last member of this gathering sat a little apart from the rest, his feet on the windowsill and his gaze fixed out of the window, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. He was a blond tattooed elf, who made no effort to introduce himself; a bodyguard perhaps.

The King spoke first. "Ser Bryant, I remember you, from Lothering. I'm glad to see you survived."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I'm honoured that you remember me."

"The message that Leliana sent ahead was that you may have some information for us. I'd appreciate anything you can tell me."

The Templar squirmed in his chair. He was really not comfortable recounting gossip, particularly in such august company. "Sire, as I explained to Lady Leliana, I know nothing certain, but there have been… rumours in the Chantry."

His Majesty laughed easily. "Ser Bryant, I spent years as a Chantry ward and a Templar initiate. I know better than most what a hotbed of gossip the Chantry is. Please, tell me what you've heard, and let us decide what's important."

Ser Bryant frowned, wondering where to begin. "I suppose the first odd thing was the reassignments. I didn't think it strange at the time - we Templars are often moved around - but these orders arrived almost immediately after the Knight-Commander retired."

Virtually everyone in the room was watching him intently, although he couldn't see the elf without turning his head. It made his face burn to be under such scrutiny. The King's eyes were fixed upon him. "Ser Bryant, what was it that struck you as odd about that?"

"I suppose, first and foremost, it was that the orders arrived so quickly. They came directly from the Grand Cleric; a new Knight-Commander hadn't been appointed yet. Greagoir, excuse me, the Knight-Commander, had only… erm… retired two days before."

"Ser Bryant, will it make your story easier if I tell you that every person in this room knows that Templars take lyrium?" The King continued, disregarding the Templar's shocked face, "The Knight-Commander succumbed to his addiction, I take it? Had it been coming on for some time?"

He felt exposed, naked, knowing that these people were aware of the Chantry's secret, but it was not surprising really. The King had very nearly taken his own vows, after all. "No sire, it was very sudden. One day he was much as usual, and the next… his mind… excuse me, but it feels disrespectful to describe it. The Knight-Commander had served long and honourably, and should be remembered as he was."

Ser Bryant noticed that the Lady Leliana was no longer looking at him; she had turned her gaze to the elf by the window and, although he could only see the lady, something seemed to be passing between them. She nodded slightly, and her blue eyes became fixed on his face again. "Ser Bryant, can you tell me please what the procedure was for distributing lyrium to the Circle Templars?"

"The Knight-Commander received shipments under the Chantry's seal. He-"

"From the Denerim Cathedral, or directly from Orzammar?" The interruption came from behind him, a thickly accented voice. Ser Bryant turned in his seat, stiffly difficult in his heavy plate, to see the elf's amber eyes regarding him intently.

"From the Grand Cleric, Ser; the Knight-Commander receives a delivery every month."

"I see. Please, continue."

"I'm not exactly sure what procedure the Knight-Commander follows. I think the deliveries come with a list, and the vials are marked for the recipients. As you probably know, not all Templars are on the same dose; we build up a resistance to the drug, and need stronger doses as time passes, to allow us to best use our abilities." The Warden Mage snorted in disgust, while the King's face was suddenly, and carefully, blank. Perhaps he hadn't known that, after all. Although, Ser Bryant's gut was telling him that the reaction wasn't to the information; but rather that the King was trying not to give something away.

"So, the Knight-Commander succumbed to the lyrium overnight and then, within two days, your re-assignment arrived?" The King's voice was still soft and courteous, but there was an undercurrent of anger.

"Not just mine, sire. Several of us were re-assigned."

For the first time, the Warden Mage spoke, his voice throbbing with unconcealed fury. "Let me guess, all the Templars who got re-assigned were pretty reasonable blokes, for Templars anyway, and you all got replaced with total arseholes."

"Anders." At the King's word and look, the mage subsided, scowling. A ginger cat, previously sleeping in front of the fire, jumped on the Warden's knee and butted his chin.

"It's not my place to comment on the characters of my Brothers, Warden." Ser Bryant couldn't admit it, but the mage was pretty much on the button, and this was what had worried him, at the time. He didn't know what replacements had arrived after they left, although there were rumours, but it seemed to him that every Templar who had _not_ received a letter was the kind who saw mages as sub-human. He'd been extremely reluctant to leave his charges in their care. There was a picture emerging here though, from this conversation, and he was more uncomfortable than ever, thinking about it: Greagoir's fast slide into delirium, and the pointed questions regarding lyrium deliveries; the speed at which the letters arrived, and who received them; and the other rumours he'd heard, whispers that some of his Brothers in the field had also been re-assigned, and that those who remained… well, suffice to say that their definition of doing Andraste's will didn't match his.

With all this in mind, he felt compelled to make a bold move, one that could get him in trouble, but somehow he felt that the people in this room would take it on the chin. "If I may ask a question, sire." At the King's encouraging nod, he continued. "Have you asked the Grand Cleric about any of this?" Everyone went suddenly still, and all eyes turned to the King. His Majesty hesitated a moment before responding; the Templar felt that he was being weighed and assessed for the answer he should receive.

"No, Ser Bryant, I haven't." All the warmth had drained out of those hazel eyes, and the broad Theirin jaw was set hard. "Suffice to say that, when I do decide to speak to Her Eminence, her answers will have to be very, very good."

Ser Bryant found that his hands were shaking; he looked down and clasped them together, the heavy gauntlets hiding the tremor. He reminded himself that his vows were to the Maker and holy Andraste, not to the Grand Cleric. _I vow total obedience to your Law._ _I vow to uphold your Law with all my strength_. _I vow to abhor those who break your Law__. _He looked up into his King's eyes, and stepped over the precipice. "I'm extremely glad to hear it, sire."

King Alistair's smile was warm and immediate, and he felt the tension in the room diminish significantly. Lady Leliana was also smiling at him, her blue eyes full of intelligence. "Ser Bryant, when Alistair has finished speaking with you, I'd like to talk with you a little longer, please. You will know others, yes? Who might not be satisfied that the Maker's work is being done? There may come a point when we need to know who is situated on which side of the fence."

Sweet Andraste, a rift in the Chantry? Such a thing hadn't happened since Tevinter seceded in 4:87 Towers. "Surely it won't come to that, my lady?"

It was the King who answered. "Pray that it doesn't, Ser Bryant. And, if I may give you a word of advice? This is wholly confidential, you understand; think of it as a reward for your frankness." The King hesitated a moment, his eyes flickering to the elf before continuing, almost as though he was asking permission. "You may wish to have your lyrium doses checked by a herbalist before consuming them. I'd hate to find that, next time we speak, you think quite differently than you do now."

Ser Bryant stared at him in horror, as the implications sunk in.

_-oOo-_


	29. Chapter 29

_-oOo-_

It was a relief to all of them when their visit to Gwaren drew to a close. Every word they had spoken within those walls had been careful; every room they occupied had been swept, by either Leliana or Zevran, for hidey-holes and listening posts. Their situation right now was so sensitive, they must beware even of their own supporters; most of them had strong support for the Chantry, also.

So, when a Dalish messenger appeared at the gates, distinctly uncomfortable but determined, asking to see the King and Queen of Ferelden, Alistair hid his relief and thanked the Teyrn and Teyrna for their hospitality. The messenger was vaguely familiar to Alistair, and introduced himself as Athras. After a moment it clicked into place; his wife had died a werewolf. Alistair remembered Melissa crying her heart out against his breastplate in the middle of the forest, after slicing the wolf's willing throat open. Athras would guide them through the treacherous paths of the deep forest to Keeper Lanaya's clan, so that they may meet with their elven allies. Teyrn Bryland failed to hide his disbelief over the notion that Dalish could be made Crown allies; his landholders made their living from fish and lumber, and one of those industries caused constant tension with the Dalish clans.

Once they passed the town of Gwaren there was a brief halt, while Maddy dismounted from her horse and was thrown up in front of Alistair. A groom led her horse through the edge of the forest, while she kept her head buried in her husband's chest, feigning a headache for the sake of the servants. Alistair's arm held his cloak around her, muffling the sounds of the lumberjacks. Nothing blocked her sense of the trees, and he felt her shaking against him. Anders had some ideas on how to possibly stop it from happening, but until they were safely away from civilisation it hadn't been prudent to try. Once the rasp of saws faded behind them, Maddy began to recover, sitting up and taking more notice of the forest. They allowed a suitable amount of time to elapse before she declared that she felt much better, and mounted her own horse again.

They met a number of Dalish scouts as they travelled, and were very glad of their escort. It was unlikely that any Dalish would attack such a large and well-armed band, but it was clear that any time they came too close to a Dalish camp they were making the clans nervous. Their guide was able to reassure the scouts that this large group of _shemlen_ were not a war band, but rather a diplomatic embassy coming to meet Keeper Lanaya. On each occasion, Alistair took the opportunity to send an invitation to the clan's Keeper to also join them. Some of the scouts merely glared at him suspiciously, but others were polite, and one or two even offered to spread the word to the rest of the clans.

The massive clearing appointed for the meeting had been carefully chosen. It was one full day's travel from Gwaren, and large enough to hold both the Ferelden tents and the Dalish aravels at a safe distance from each other. Athras explained that this should not be perceived as rudeness, but was merely to protect those of the clan who wished it from any aging effects of their human neighbours. The Ferelden delegation seemed to have arrived first; there were no aravels or elves in the clearing at all, and the servants immediately began to set up camp, while Leliana, Zevran and Philippe willingly joined Athras to hunt some fresh meat.

_-oOo-_

"Report."

"The barrier door is dwarven built, Knight Commander; it has no mechanism we can find, on this side, and has resisted all our efforts to break through it."

Knight Commander Cullen's mouth tightened. "And are you able to explain why we were previously unaware of this large, prominent hole in our security?"

"The dust on the floor suggests that stores have been stacked deeply in front of it for a long time, possibly generations. Even the oldest of our Brethren seemed unaware it was there, Knight Commander."

_Someone knew._ Cullen cursed the freedom he had granted Dagna; she had proved unworthy of his trust. Half a dozen mages escaped; all of the most prominent remaining Equitarians and Isolationists, the most dangerous of his charges. "Do we know where it leads?"

The investigating Templar shook his head, "Possibly into the Deep Roads, in which case they are all dead. Or to an exit somewhere on the surface; we have people out looking, but without knowing which direction to take… But the most likely answer is Orzammar."

Orzammar; one of only two places in Ferelden where the Chantry held no authority. "I will have to inform the Grand Cleric of this fiasco. In the meantime, I want our security tightened. It is our duty to protect Ferelden from this menace. I will tolerate no more risks to the populace; the mages will be secured, even if we have to chain them together, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Knight Commander. You may rely on me." The Templar bowed and left; determined purpose in every line of his body.

_-oOo-_

"_Andaran atish'an_ King Alistair, Queen Madeleina, you are welcome at my hearth."

Maddy stretched out her hands to the Keeper, who grasped them, pleased with the manners of these informal _shemlen _leaders. "It's lovely to see you again Keeper Lanaya. Thank you for inviting us."

Some of the aravels were still arriving, sails furled in the tight confines of the forest, the halla expertly threading them through the paths and into the clearing. The inviting scent of slow-roasting venison rose from the King's encampment, a testimony to the success of the hunt.

Alistair offered the Keeper his hand and shook hers warmly. "I hope you and your clan will consent to eat with us this evening, Keeper. Athras led our hunters to a superb herd, and there's plenty of food for everyone."

"That would be kind, King Alistair. Thank you."

The Dalish settled into their camp with practiced ease while, at Maddy's request, Keeper Lanaya joined them in the Royal pavilion. She cast an amused glance at the opulent surroundings; at the carved table and chairs, the brazier in the corner and the curtained-off bedchamber, the rugs on the floor and tapestries on the walls. It seemed King Alistair caught her expression; he chuckled, waving his hand expressively at his surroundings. "I know, I know, it's excessive, right? It's expected of us, and I can't say I'm unhappy not to have to rough it any longer." He snagged his wife around her waist affectionately, "Maddy here thinks this_ is_ roughing it." All three took a seat in the comfortable chairs, and the King poured wine into goblets for them.

Lanaya smiled indulgently, "In her condition it is probably as well to be careful. May I offer my congratulations?"

They both regarded her with astonishment, while she wondered what she had said. Was it offensive to mention this in _shemlen_ society?

"You… can tell?" Queen Madeleina's tone was cautious, but her hand had dropped to her stomach in an automatic gesture.

"That you are pregnant? Yes, of course. I apologise if it was wrong to say so. I don't know your customs."

"No, no, of course it isn't. But, it's still quite early; I was just surprised that you knew."

"Ah, I see. Please recall that as Keeper the care of my people is of paramount importance. Although any of the women of my clan could assist at a lying-in, the duty most often falls on me. Particularly as I have some healing magic, in case anything goes wrong." The Keeper passed an experienced eye over the young Queen. It was, as she said, extremely early, no more than two months, but she seemed to be blooming. "I would offer you my assistance, but you have a Warden healer with you, do you not? At a later stage you may want a woman to attend you, but at this time I doubt I can offer you better advice than he."

There was a slight crease between the brows of the _shemlen_ King, and he spoke hesitantly. "Keeper, a royal heir is a huge matter to Ferelden, and until Anders declares Maddy to be past the early danger of- of-"

"Miscarriage," his wife interjected matter-of-factly, and he shot her a grateful look, clearly afraid to even voice the possibility.

"Yes, that. Until then, we've told no-one, not even family and friends. I have to ask for your discretion in this matter."

Lanaya hastened to reassure them. "Of course, I will say nothing, but I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you."

"I don't." The Queen's voice rang with confidence. "The _Vhena'lath _protects our children."

Lanaya found no fault with this sentiment; it was what the ritual had been conducted for, after all. And who would know better than the _Vhen'alas'mamae_ that this was so? The King squirmed slightly, looking a shade uncomfortable with his wife's pronouncement. "Keeper, this brings us to something else we very much need to discuss with you. Just give me a moment please; I need to absolutely ensure we are not overheard." King Alistair went outside, and they heard him sending away his door guards and asking Leliana to take their place for a short while and to ensure that no-one approached any side of the tent.

He returned to his seat. "Apologies, Keeper. If my personal guard find out that Maddy is pregnant, then that's not the end of the world, but this…" He scrubbed his hand through his hair, while Lanaya waited for him to continue. "Keeper, back when you planted the tree for us, the day before our wedding, you said something odd. I didn't think of it at the time, I thought you were talking about the tree, but later… later I wondered if I was wrong. And Leliana tells me you spoke to her also; that you said Maddy nurtured the land, or something of the sort. Can you explain what you meant, please?"

The Keeper's gaze flicked from the King to the Queen and back. He looked troubled and she seemed almost fearful. "As I recall, I explained to your friend Leliana that Queen Madeleina is a _Vhen'alas'mamae. _The literal translation would be Land Mother, but Land Nurturer would be more meaningful perhaps. Leliana's response led me to believe that you understood this; she used a human word for it."

He nodded. "She told me, and it seems there may have been a misunderstanding between you. The word she used was horticulturist, and I don't think it means the same at all. Keeper, what is a Land Nurturer?"

"It is one who is completely in tune with the _Vhen'alas, _the land. It is one who may walk in the _Setheneran, _where the trees dream, and hear their needs. I do not know exactly what else they may do; I think it varies, but I only know through stories and lore."

The Queen's voice was quiet and shook slightly. "You don't know anyone who can do this?"

"You mean, other than yourself? No. Zathrian described meeting one, hundreds of years ago. Since then, I have heard of none, although we do not receive any news of clans outside Ferelden, so there may have been others." The _shemlen_ King took his wife's hand where it lay on the table, rubbing his thumb soothingly over her fingers. The Keeper was struggling to understand what the problem was here; they were obviously tense, but she couldn't understand why. A _Vhen'alas'mamae_ was a treasured gift; why were they so nervous and fearful? "Queen Madeleina, I apologise if I offend, but it seems to me that you see your gifts as a burden. I don't understand how this can be so."

"Keeper, I-" The young woman's voice cracked, and she took a moment to regain control before continuing. "Keeper, am I a mage?"

Lanaya blinked at her in polite incomprehension. "I don't know. Are you? Are you asking if you can be a mage as well?"

The King leaned forward with an intent expression. "Are you saying that a Venala… a Land Nurturer_ isn't_ a mage?"

This conversation was getting increasingly difficult. Lanaya wanted to explain, but didn't really know enough about this lore. Instead she addressed the Queen. "You can hear the land, yes?"

"I- er… yes, I think so; a lot more than I could, now that Anders has been teaching me how to practice discipline."

"So you have been using the discipline a mage uses to enhance your gift? I see. And, if the land tells you that it needs your assistance, you can help it?"

Madeleina's brow furrowed. "I can heal plants, or make them grow if that's what you mean."

Lanaya nodded. This fit with the lore. "And where do you draw your power from?"

"I… um… pardon?"

"If I wish to cast a spell, then I reach into the_ Setheneran_, what you call the Fade, like so." The Keeper shifted so that she perceived the Fade and expertly grasped a pinch of the kind of power she needed. She saw the King's face watching her, and it was clear he knew what she had done. The Queen just looked puzzled. She released the power as a small flame in her hand. "If you are a mage then you should be able to follow my shift into the Fade and perceive what I do. Are you a mage, King Alistair?"

"What? Maker, no. I'm Templar-trained. I can feel it, but not see it. I can't go there myself, not voluntarily, anyway."

The Queen shook her head. "Anders tried the same thing. I can't see or feel _anything_."

"So, if you heal a plant, how do you do it?"

"I… follow the plant to where it lives, where it feels. Everything I need is right there."

Lanaya nodded again, it seemed reasonably clear to her. "You take it from the _Setheneran_, but not the dreamscape of _Elvhen_ and _Shemlen_. You shift to where the _Vhen'alas_ dreams and draw your power from there." She glanced at the human King, who was trying his best to understand. She explained patiently, "The _Setheneran_ is not one landscape as the physical world is. If you dream of trees, that is your dream, your construct. The trees you see are not real trees, dreaming away their day in your little world. It would be hubris to think so, would it not? That all things spend their time in your little dream-world?"

Alistair gave a slow nod of agreement. "I hadn't thought about it, but I guess that's true."

"Even the dreamscape of _Elvhen_ and _Shemlen _is fragmented but, with practice, any part of it is accessible to a mage, and any mage will be able to feel, or see, another mage reach into it to grasp power." Lanaya took a sip from the untouched wine before her, to moisten her throat. "It is logical to assume therefore that the dreamscape of the land, of trees and plants, is similarly fragmented and that, when a _Vhen'alas'mamae _seeks power, she will draw it from that place. Presumably another _Vhen'alas'mamae _would be able to detect it." She shrugged, "If we were fortunate enough to have more than one," she added drily.

"So, does this mean that I'm not a mage?" Lanaya heard the hope in the Queen's voice, but didn't have enough reassurance to offer.

"You are the _Vhen'alas'mamae. _That is all I know for sure. I would say that you are not a mage, because all mages may walk wakeful in the_Setheneran_ of _Elvhen_ and _Shemlen. _It would seem that you do not."

King Alistair held up a hand. "Hang on; Anders said he could feel Maddy healing the plant, even though the magic felt strange, and I can feel it too, and taste it."

"That's merely the release of the gathered power, here in the physical world. Anyone can be trained to recognise it, mage or not, although it's much easier for mages." Lanaya felt this theoretical discussion had gone far enough. "Queen Madeleina, tomorrow I would be honoured to walk with you in the forest and see you speak to the _Vhen'alas. _Perhaps that will ease your fears better than any amount of talk."

_-oOo-_

In the midst of all these tattooed faces and outlandish armour, she felt even more out-of-place than she had in the Teyrn's castle, or in the Royal Palace. These were Dalish; to them she was just a shem with pointy ears. Somehow that was worse than humans treating her with disdain for being an elf.

So, when Zevran suggested they train a little, Kallian jumped at it eagerly. They picked a clear space in the centre of the clearing, far away from tents and weird wheeled houses, and began the whirling dance of bodies and blades. He worked her hard, forcing her to re-adjust time and again for changes in technique, and she lost herself in the fight. She forgot the harsh, unfeeling world and focussed utterly on dodge and duck, leap and parry, slice and weave. Only when Zevran stepped back and allowed her to catch her breath did she realise they had drawn an audience. It was not unusual for some of the King's Own to watch, but this crowd contained a fair amount of facial tattoos and upswept elven ears.

As she wiped her streaming face on a rag, a slender, wiry warrior stepped forward, his face hesitant under the vivid blue ink. He had sword and dagger strapped to his back instead of the more usual longbow. "_Andaran atish'an_… erm… cousins. You fight very well; I've never seen some of those moves before."

"Thanks," Kalli shifted uncomfortably, and nodded over at Zev, "he's a really good teacher."

"That I am." Compliments never seemed to faze Zevran. She could barely get a full sentence out sometimes, and he had more polish than the King's dining table. It didn't seem _fair_, somehow. "Do you wish to join us? I am willing to show you some tricks, if you wish."

The blue ink stretched into a smile. "_Ma serannas_. That would please me."

One or two others also took a step forward, and Kallian broke into a grin. Perhaps this would be a bit better than the Teyrn's castle, after all.

_-oOo-_

The Dalish thawed a little further under the influence of a good meal and plenty of the King's wine. Leliana's flawless performance of an ancient elven song brought murmurs of approval, and a distinct softening of the Dalish storyteller Sarel, who was coaxed to tell tales in his turn, delighting the bard. From conversations around them it seemed small delegations from other clans, Keepers and Elders wishing to meet the human leaders, would be arriving over the next couple of days. This meant that the work of overcoming Dalish prejudice would have to be done again on the morrow, but if Lanaya's clan could be won over, the rest would be easier.

Philippe sat a little way from the central fire-pit watching his sister, half-sprawled across her husband's lap and bundled in his cloak. Maddy had taken her brother aside earlier and whispered to him the news of her pregnancy, and Philippe noted now how Alistair hovered protectively over her, wondering how he had not noticed it before. His heart was full and sore, torn between joy at her happiness and fear for her.

"A sovereign for your thoughts, _il_ _mio principe_."

He glanced around, as the elf dropped gracefully to the ground at his side. They had not spoken much since they kissed on the castle ramparts several days ago. Philippe was not sure which of them had been avoiding the other; perhaps it was both. "I was wishing I fought better, _mon cher_." His eyes were still on Maddy, and he nodded towards her. "If danger threatens my sister, I won't be able to protect her."

There was a short silence; he turned to see whether Zevran intended to answer, and found him looking at Alistair and Maddy with a strange, vulnerable expression on his face. It vanished in an instant, replaced by what Philippe privately referred to as Crow-Face. It was designed to set everyone at a distance, to tell them that they couldn't possibly have any emotional effect on the elven assassin. The Orlesian prince had no difficulty recognising it; he knew he owned a similar one, but it didn't stop him from wanting to kiss it away. He refrained, instead waiting politely for Zevran to compose some light reply.

Instead, the elf's voice was a little wistful, "You care for your sister very much, do you not?" He turned to look at Philippe, and a touch of melancholy peeped out in his amber eyes, fighting its way past Crow-Face.

"I love her dearly. _Notre père_ died in battle when Maddy was still very young; a stupid border dispute with Nevarra. When _maman_ was assassinated, I was at Court." Philippe swallowed hard, remembering. "Maddy was barely into her teens. I returned to Ghislain immediately and found this wild child, hair in a tangle, skinned knees, refusing to come down from her tree." He smiled slightly at the memory, but the smile twisted into self-disgust. Zevran was watching him carefully, molten eyes saying far more than he would ever admit. "I was a stupid, spoilt young man, well on my way to being ruined by the indulgences of the Imperial Court." _And terrified that my stupidity may have caused my mother's death._ He couldn't say that, had never admitted that to anyone. "Maddy saved me, made me grow up. I was her big brother, her guardian; I had to keep her safe." Philippe stopped speaking; he had already said far more than he intended. He looked down at his hands, not wishing to expose himself any further. His own personal version of Crow-Face – the polite, urbane Orlesian noble, who would have known better than to trust anyone at Court – eluded him for the moment.

Zevran shifted slightly beside him, and sighed. "I have very little to offer to anyone, _caro mio_, but this… this I can give. You have my word that, if I can prevent it, no harm will come to your sister." The assassin stood in one abrupt, fluid move, and was gone before Philippe could respond.

_-oOo-_


	30. Chapter 30

_**AN:** Yay, Chapter 30! Another milestone reached. Unfortunately I can't offer you any celebratory smut in this one. Instead, it's full of... well... plot, cos that's what I do. _

_According to the FF stats I have in the region of 250 people who are regular readers - people who read every chapter as it comes out. Plus I have a bunch of others on LJ's Swooping_is_Bad and on Dreamwidth's PeopleofThedas. Wow! I know there are other, better and more popular, writers out there (hell, I read most of 'em) but for a first story I'm very pleased with that result. Thank you all very much for staying with me, and big hugs and kisses to those of you who take the trouble to write reviews. Your courtesy is much appreciated. If I've ever forgotten to respond, please forgive me. I try to do so, but I lose track sometimes; FF doesn't show me which ones I've replied to, and which I haven't. Regards, Karen xx_

_-oOo-_

"Your Majesty, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Alistair looked up from strapping on the last of his leather armour, considered most suitable for these forest environs, and smiled at his Guard Captain. "Of course, Cedric. What's on your mind?"

"Um, in private, if you don't mind, sire."

Captain Cedric held the flap of the Royal Pavilion back for his King and followed him in. Alistair gestured carelessly to a chair and flopped into one himself. Cedric sat, stiffly upright. He was usually comfortable with the Royal couple, but this was a subject he hadn't been looking forward to raising.

"Spit it out Ced, what's bothering you?"

Friendliness was the last thing he needed from his King right now. "Sire," he began, and saw Alistair's brows snap down in concern at the unusual formality. "The safety of you and your Queen is my responsibility, and as such there are occasions when it is my duty to demand explanations from you, or even to overrule you in matters of your security."

"And?" The frown that Cedric was facing wasn't helping him. It was unlike his King to be so abrupt and withdrawn.

"I'm told that you sent your guards away last night so that you and the Queen could talk to the Dalish Keeper alone. Even Kalli wasn't in here. The Keeper is a mage; you were at serious risk. Today I am informed that you and the Queen intend to ride out into the forest with the Dalish, and that you have refused to take any of the King's Own with you." Cedric set his jaw in preparation for the storm. "Sire, I can't permit this."

The expected storm never broke. Instead Alistair sat looking at him for a moment, with that same frown drawing his brows together. "I'm sorry, Captain, but you are going to _have_ to permit it. Maddy and I are in no danger from the Dalish, but our business with them is private. However, if it makes you feel better, I am taking Anders, Kallian, Leliana and Zev. You have to admit, they are at least as good as any of your men."

"Yes, they are but-" Cedric bit down on the words, and then changed his mind. _Sod it_. "Alistair, listen to what you're saying, please. You have private business, so you're willing to take a Warden Mage, an elf you picked out of the Alienage a few weeks ago, an Orlesian bard and even an_ Antivan assassin_, for the Maker's sake. But you won't take any of your own personal guard, men that you selected and trained yourself. Not even your own Guard Captain. Don't you trust us? Don't you trust _me_?"

"Of course I do." His King didn't seem at all put out by this outburst, in fact it seemed to have set him at ease somewhat. "But don't think I didn't hear the slant you put on that list. Maker's Breath, Ced, I've been in politics long enough to be able to spot it a mile away, you know that. I'm taking with me a brother Warden, the Queen's personal bodyguard and two of the Blight companions, my oldest friends. Sounds a little different then, doesn't it?"

Cedric clenched his jaw in frustration. "That's not the point, and you know it. The King's Own have followed you everywhere, seen everything, and not once has there been a leak of information from my team. Not once. Yet now you put yourself at risk to exclude us. I can't do my job properly like this."

Alistair was slowly shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Ced, but you're going to have to. You've asked if I trust you. I do. But there is more going on here than you know, more than it's safe to discuss. For the moment, I'm going to have to ask_ you_ to trust _me_ when I say that there will be some occasions when the security of both me and my wife will be compromised more by the presence of the King's Own than by their absence."

Captain Cedric stood and bowed, his mien rigidly disapproving. "Then there is nothing further to say. I apologise for taking up your time, sire."

_-oOo-_

This was going to be the really tricky bit. She'd had certain choices to make regarding the best approach, and none of them were foolproof; a certain amount of bluffing would be required, either way. None of her companions understood the intricacies of Orzammar politics, so all the burden fell on her. For the first time in her life, Dagna wished she was higher caste; her own knowledge of politics was nowhere near as complete as it could be, but her knowledge in other areas was huge, and it was this she would fall back on whenever possible.

If she was going to have to bluff, then she may as well go the whole nug. If there was one thing for certain, it was that you didn't gain _anything_ in Orzammar by being timid. Dagna cleaned up her dusty clothes as best she could and instructed her weary companions to do the same. Once they were all as presentable as possible, she opened the barrier door and stepped into the Mining Quarter as though she had every right to be there.

A bored guard at the entrance to one of the more impressive residences opposite gaped, as one pretty dwarf and six humans in robes appeared through a door that had been sealed for centuries. "By the Stone, where did you come from? W-what are you doing here?"

Dagna tilted her little chin. "To answer your second question first; we're a delegation from the Circle of Magi, come to speak with King Bhelen. And, as for where we came from," she gestured at the door behind her, being carefully closed by the last mage through, "we used the Lyrium Route, as is our right. This was laid down in the Lyrium Charter of 1.04 Divine, as I'm sure you know." There had been later versions of the Lyrium Charter that did _not_ include the right of free traffic for diplomatic embassies, but it had never been _overtly_ revoked in any of them. It was likely that only the Shaper would know that such an embassy must have the First Enchanter among its number, and Dagna had a contingency plan for that, if needed. She boldly ignored the guard's sputtered response and turned to her companions. "Come on, we should report to the Guard Commander in the Commons before proceeding to the Diamond Quarter. He will ensure that the Shaperate is informed of our arrival so that it can be entered in the Memories." Six tired, frightened mages did their level best to look like a diplomatic delegation, as they following her past the homes of the Mining Caste and into the Commons.

_-oOo-_

The trees were bleeding.

On the trunk of virtually every tree in the grove blackened sap ran in rivulets from cankers; rusty-red infections that looked inflamed even to human eyes. On those trees where the infection appeared most advanced, the leaves were crisp and brown.

"Maker's Blood, what happened to them?" Alistair's horrified exclamation was mirrored in the eyes of Anders and Leliana. Zevran's face remained neutral. Kallian's eyes were fixed on Maddy.

Keeper Lanaya held Maddy gently by the hand as she led her in amongst the trunks, the Queen's face twisted in mirrored pain. "We call it Sudden Death. We don't know what causes the disease, but it spreads rapidly, and a tree infected by it will be dead within three weeks." A further two Keepers, their clans newly arrived that morning, carefully watched the reactions of the supposed _Vhen'alas'Mamae._ Three Dalish hunters, including Athras, remained at the edge of the grove, their attention out towards the forest and any threats. "If it isn't stopped it will spread through this entire section of the forest. Some trees are spared, but we don't know why."

"The trees don't, either." Maddy's voice was dreamy, remote. She frowned, concentrating, and released Lanaya's hand to run hers over a diseased trunk. "Not insects or fungus. They know of these things; of being eaten from the inside by crawling feeders, or their life sapped away by those who don't seek the sun. This is different, silent and deadly. It feels like…" she stopped and cocked her head, "like plague, coursing through a city, leaving the lucky few wondering how they survived."

"Only a _shemlen_ would make such a comparison. The real question is; can you heal them?" The question came from Keeper Garrian, a stern, elderly elf, his tattoos faded with time. He had made it quite clear that he had serious reservations about Lanaya's assertion that this _shemlen_ was a _Vhen'alas'Mamae_, and would require proof. The third Keeper, Passana, had so far kept her counsel, merely asking mildly if she may be included in this expedition.

Maddy blinked, coming back to the real world. "I don't know," she said truthfully. "I can try."

Her eyes blanked slightly as she reached for the place where the trees existed; reached for their part of the Fade, if Lanaya's assertion was correct. Here they were more _real_, their life more vivid, their ponderous thought and feeling clearer. Here also the land was more real, filled with a health and vibrancy that it lacked in the normal world. If she dug her hands into this soil, then the nutrients she seized had an existence, a solidity of feeling. The air, and the sunlight, also could be grasped and used, poured into the tree before her, cleansing the foulness that clouded its health and splendour.

The part of Maddy that remained in a world of intangible air and muddy soil felt the energy flow from her palms into the diseased trunk, felt the tree _stretch_ like a man released from pain. The stretch, invisible to the eye, sent a flush of green through withered leaves, while under her hands the infected cankers sealed and shrank to nothing. She released the Fade, the love and gratitude of the tree fading to a murmur in her mind.

"I didn't feel her enter the _Setheneran _at all_._" The quiet comment came from Keeper Passana, and as Anders checked Maddy to ensure she was well, Keeper Lanaya answered her.

"I have a theory about that, if you will indulge me. Queen Madeleinasays that she follows the tree to where it lives and feels. I think this is a different part of the _Setheneran_ than that in which we walk. She cannot walk where we do, and we cannot walk where she can."

"An interesting theory, but theories will not help the forest." Keeper Garrian's voice was vaguely scornful. "Can this _shemlen_ only affect one tree at a time? That is not very useful."

"You have so many Land Nurturers that you can afford to be choosy?" Maddy was getting a little sick of the snootier element of the Dalish, and her irritation spilled into her tone. "If you wish to ask me whether I can do more, then you may do so. I may not have answers for you, but it is rude to speak about me as though I were not here. Furthermore, my name is Madeleina." She raised her chin, regarding the elderly Keeper steadily. "If you use it, rather than referring to me as 'shemlen', then _I_ will continue to offer _you_ the courtesy of not calling you 'e_lf'_."

"And that's the nicest word she could use." Anders tossed this over his shoulder as he finished his inspection of the irate Queen and then spoke directly to her, ignoring the glaring Keeper. "Maddy, there are healing spells I can do that, in their advanced forms, heal everyone rather than just one target. Maybe there's enough common ground in what we do, that I can show you how to adapt your ability?"

Keeper Passana cocked her head like a bird, interest gleaming in her eyes. "I might also be able to help. Some of my spells can affect the trees, although not as the _Vhen'alas'Mamae _does. Perhaps between us we can help Madeleina to come into her power?"

"You would teach our magic, our lore, to outsiders?"

Keeper Passana turned to her elderly and irascible counterpart, and spoke soothingly. "You saw what she did, _l__ethallin_. Whether you like it or not, Madeleina is a _Vhen'alas'Mamae_. It is not for us to question the wisdom of the Gods in bringing this gift to the humans. I have no objection to working with theGrey Warden to assist her. It will take a little effort, perhaps a day or two at camp, and then we can return and see what she may achieve."

Her words gave slight emphasis to Anders' status as a Warden, a group who had always had the respect of the Dalish. Keeper Garrian acknowledged her reproof with a slight inclination of his head. "_Ma_ _nuvenin, lethallan_."

_-oOo-_

The very last thing they expected to meet on their way back to camp was Templars. When Leliana and Athras, returning from scouting ahead, reported their presence in the forest, the Dalish bristled immediately. It was not unknown for Templars to invade the Brecilian Forest, pursuing apostates and maleficarum who had chosen to hide within its depths. The Chantry tended to avoid all-out assaults on the Dalish camps, but their Templar brethren were not above dragging away any Dalish mage they accidentally encountered to a miserable life within stone walls. And _that_ was a fate reserved only for the younger elves, the elders faced only death; the Dalish knew this well enough to ensure that their Keepers were well protected.

The immediate question was whether to try to avoid the Templars or meet them head on. Keeper Gallian and the hunters wanted to take them down, neutralise the threat. Lanaya and Passana wanted to skirt them.

The rest of the party saw things a little differently.

"Tch, there are twelve of us; they would be foolish to try anything." Zevran's tone was derisory.

Alistair wasn't so certain. "That's true but, you know, polluted blue bottles and all that. We don't know the Templars are in their right minds."

"Templars don't _have_ a 'right mind'."

"Wow, thanks a lot, Anders. In case you forgot, Templar-trained, right here."

"You escaped just in time to retain at least a little bit of sanity."

"Thanks."

"At least until you met your first broodmother."

Maddy ruthlessly dragged them back. "Can we stay on topic? _Mon mari_, you are the King. Would even crazed Templars attack, with you present?"

Alistair shrugged, unsure. "There are four mages in this group and… you. They're going to think it's their birthday."

"I wouldn't worry about them noticing Maddy, Alistair. With me and three Keepers driving their senses wild, there's _no way_ they'll spot her."

Leliana and Zevran had stuck their heads together during this conversation, with Kallian also listening in. The three rogues now had identical looks of unholy glee on their faces that were making Alistair nervous. Leliana raised her head from the murmured conversation and caught the King watching. She smiled at him, the angelic smile that definitely meant she was up to something. "Alistair, do you agree that, if the Templars are in their right mind, then they won't be stupid enough to attack a group of people that contains you and Maddy?"

"Provided I declare who I am, they'd be insane to do so. Even though, under Chantry Law, the Dalish mages are apostates, this is a diplomatic meeting. And, more importantly, if they attempt violence against me under_ any_ circumstances, it's treason."

Leliana looked like the cat that got the cream, while Zev and Kallian were digging in pouches and producing some perfectly foul-looking bottles. "That's exactly what I was thinking. How would you like a legitimate opportunity to upset the Grand Cleric?"

_-oOo-_

The apostate's trail had gone cold hours ago, lost amidst all these Maker-damned trees. And then, just as they were about to backtrack, to try to pick it back up at an earlier point, all of their heads swung around at once.

"Do you feel that?"

"Tastes like…"

"It's foreign, foul."

"_Dalish_."

Lips pulled back from bared teeth, swords rode loose in scabbards. The Templars lifted their heads like hounds, scenting the wind and without a further word they followed the smell and taste of abhorrent, free magic.

_-oOo-_

King Bhelen might have refused to see this supposed embassy from the Circle of Magi, were it not for the letter in his pocket from King Alistair of Ferelden, received only two days ago. In addition to confirming that the official visit to Orzammar would be going ahead in the autumn, this letter had contained some fascinating intelligence, suggesting that the Chantry had been tampering with the lyrium deliveries.

King Alistair Theirin, having been one of the individuals who had re-secured the throne of Orzammar for the House of Aeducan, understood the dwarves better than most humans, and his letter assured Bhelen of his outrage that one of the finest gifts of the Ancestors should be debased in this manner. The fact that this defilement broke one of the key articles of the Lyrium Charter and, for the first time in hundreds of years, freed the Assembly to seek a new buyer, hardly needed to be mentioned. King Alistair had, instead, stated his commitment to ensuring that lyrium be distributed on the surface through the most accountable, controlled and efficient channels.

The implications made Bhelen's hands sweat; if he could manipulate the Assembly successfully before this news got out, he could move control of the lyrium trade from the Mining Caste to House Aeducan _and_ have a new agreement firmly in place with the Ferelden Crown before the rest of Orzammar caught up. Much of the money and power of Orzammar was tied up in the lyrium trade; he could finally break the stubborn, hidebound Assembly with this, if it was handled correctly. Not to mention the bonus of gaining a rock-solid trade alliance with the Warden King; the one human leader in the whole of Thedas who, in exchange for such a concession, might be both willing and able to help him gain back some Thaigs.

So, the news that the woman who had given up caste and clan to move to the Circle of Magi, together with a ragtag group of mages, had suddenly appeared through the ancient Lyrium Route claiming to be a delegation, and asking to see the King, had understandably piqued his interest. If they could have any impact on this delicate political situation, then they needed to be fully understood, tightly controlled and, if possible, utilised to his advantage. Bhelen would leave nothing to chance. He never did.

_-oOo-_

"Cedric, I have a task for you."

"Of course, Your Majesty. What do you require?"

"I want these pieces of filth dragged to Denerim and thrown into Fort Drakon." Alistair jerked his thumb to the four bound Templars being manhandled into camp by Zev, Kalli and the three Dalish hunters.

"Fort Drakon, sire? They're Templars; if they have erred in some way, surely we have to hand them over to the Chantry for justice."

Alistair could barely keep the grin off his face. "They attacked me, Ced; actually swung a sword at my head for refusing to hand the Dalish Keepers over to them. If you think I'm handing these treasonous swine over to Leanna, you've got your head in the clouds. They can rot in Fort Drakon until I get back to the capital." The King snapped his fingers suddenly, face lighting up. "In fact, take them to Gwaren, it's less than a day away, and Bryland can send them to Denerim under escort. It's the perfect opportunity to get his noble arse off the fence. I'll write a letter to him now, and one for Eamon, too."

Captain Cedric inspected the four bound men. They only had minor wounds. He frowned up at his smirking King. "Four men attacked twelve of you? Why aren't they dead?"

"What can I say; my guards were, as Zev so succinctly puts it, awesome. He and Kalli hit them with Soldier's Bane, while Anders made them all sleepy."

"You set an ambush? For _Templars_?"

"Cedric, I give you my solemn word; I declared who I was, I told them that the Dalish were diplomatic ambassadors, and they attacked anyway. They were like animals, screaming that I was a heretic consorting with the damned. They'll swing for this; Chantry Law can't protect them."

"As you say, sire. I'll arrange an escort for them immediately."

_-oOo-_


	31. Chapter 31

_-oOo-_

"Now, remember what I told you about controlling the flow of power, let it pool around you, but not too fast."

Maddy nodded faintly at Anders' advice, only a small amount of her attention focussed in the real world. The rest was drawing power from the Fade, imagining herself as a tube, a funnel through which the power could move, rather than a fist in which a set amount of power could be grasped.

"That's it, _lethallan_, let the _Vhen'alas_ aid you; it is not necessary to do all the work yourself."

The Keeper was right; she could feel the trees drawing what they needed from the pool at her feet. All over the grove they relaxed in relief of pain, stretched to the sun, dug down with stronger roots. Bark smoothed out, free from cankers and fresh green flushed overhead replacing the dead brown. All she had to do was keep the power flowing at a steady rate until they were finished.

Eventually she relaxed her hold on the Fade and came back to the real world. Came back to a healthy grove; the contented murmur of the trees and the land a background noise in her head. Their pain and misery was all gone.

Maddy staggered, drained for the moment, and Alistair caught her. "Are you alright, love? Anders, check on her, please. I won't have her doing this if it hurts her."

Keeper Passana drew in a deep breath, her expression awed. "_Ma serannas, _Madeleina. I cannot express our thanks. The disease would have decimated this entire section of the forest."

"She's fine Alistair, no physical problems at all, but she couldn't help so much as a tiny seedling right now. I imagine it'll replenish over time, just as a mage's energy would."

"I'm taking her back to camp to rest."

"One moment, please." The elderly Keeper, Gallian, seemed to be struggling with some emotion. "_Abelas_, Madeleina. My apologies." His bow was stiff, but respectful. "It seems you truly are a _Vhen'alas'Mamae,_ and I thank you for what you have done today."

The smile Maddy gave him was weary, but sunny. "You're welcome, Keeper, but, in truth, I didn't do it for you. I did it for the trees; they were in dreadful pain." She turned her smile on her husband. "Alistair, would you consider me a terrible baby if I asked you to carry me back? Not that I can't walk, you understand, but…" It was difficult for her to explain; after the warmth and affection the trees afforded her in the Fade, the real world felt cold and indifferent. She needed to feel cared for, but couldn't think of a way to explain it without sounding horribly needy. In the end she settled for: "I need to be close to you, as close as possible." Ouch, that probably sounded exactly how she hadn't wanted it to.

She was immediately swung up into strong arms, her head resting against leather and suede. "Your desire is my command, my dear," Alistair murmured, against her hair. Thankfully, it appeared he didn't mind if she was a little needy.

She sighed, contented and clung to him like a child. "Thank you, _mon mari_. Tell me if you get tired, and I'll walk the rest of the way." It seemed unlikely that he would; her husband was the strongest person she had ever met. He was her rock and her shield.

_-oOo-_

The strains of Leliana's harp floated across the camp, supporting the voices of Dalish, singing a complicated round. Since the bound Templars had been dragged into camp three days ago, a fragile peace had settled over the encampment, with Dalish and humans mingling to train, to hunt and to socialise more freely than anyone would have thought possible. Tonight would be the last they spent together; tomorrow, the King and his travelling court would move on: up to South Reach and from there to Lothering. Those Keepers who were here could not speak for the rest of the clans, but they had promised to spread word of this meeting and of the possibility of better relations with the_ shemlen_ under this King Alistair. A King who was a Grey Warden, and whose Queen was confirmed to be a _Vhen'alas'Mamae_ would garner more respect than any other possibly could.

While the Chantry held power in Ferelden, the relationship between the Dalish and their human neighbours couldn't truly be cordial; it was the Chantry who had hunted them and destroyed their second homeland. This could never be forgotten, but a change from frigid neutrality to cautious friendliness was still a valuable alteration, if it could be brought about. Trade would improve and, once profit was involved, then Alistair had grounds for a proposal to make the forest a protected territory, a safer home for their elven allies. It was a tenuous and fragile start, but any improvement was better than none.

When the song ended, Leliana threaded her way through camp to where Anders sprawled on the ground by the fire. Her friend had been brooding all day, or at least brooding as much as his inherently cheerful nature allowed, and she was determined to find out why, and to help if she could. To this end, she sat on the log he was using as a headrest and announced her intention of brushing his hair. As Leliana was known to consider anyone with long hair to be fair game for this favourite pastime of hers, Anders made no complaint, merely raising his supine body a little higher to provide her with freer access.

Only once his blond hair had been freed from the confining band, and the soft scrape of the brush over his scalp soothed him, did she raise the subject of his mood. "Has something been bothering you? You've been quiet all day."

He chuckled quietly. "And here I was, thinking that you'd all find that a merciful relief. I thought I was a pestiferous chatterbox, who no-one even recognised if my mouth was shut?"

Her merry laugh rang out. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, Nathaniel, of course." Her hands stilled momentarily before continuing. He shifted a little higher, so she could drag the brush up the nape of his neck, combing the hair there through her fingers. "I never thought I'd miss the gloomy old stick, but I do. The Wardens are the nearest thing I've ever had to a family."

"Is that what's bothering you? Are you homesick for the Keep?"

"No-o, not really. Politics is fun, and the whole thing with… you know… trees, is really interesting and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see something totally new. I'm having a great time, although I do miss being able to blow things up freely. It's not that; in fact, it's not really about me at all." Leliana put down the brush and slipped her hands into his hair, massaging the scalp. She felt his shoulders drop as tension began to release. "Mmm, that's _fantastic_. What was I saying? Oh… family. The thing is; Keeper Lanaya spoke to me earlier, about Athras. She says he lost his wife a couple of years back and hasn't been the same since."

Leliana nodded, digging her thumbs into the nape, finding tense lumps to massage. "I remember. It was terrible for him; he lost her to the werewolf curse."

Anders dropped his head forward to accommodate her. "Really? I guess that might make more sense then. Because Lanaya says that he's been more alive these last few days, hunting and scouting with us, than he's been in forever. Since his wife died, in fact."

"Is she asking us to take him with us? I'm not sure he'd find the rest of this tour to his taste, even if Alistair agreed. We'll be in castles a lot; you saw what it was like at Gwaren, feasting and dancing and other noble entertainments."

"Nono, that's not it at all, although castles _are_ part of the problem. She's asked me if he'd make a good Warden."

Leliana finished the scalp massage and picked up her brush again. "I think he'd make an excellent Warden. He's brave, and determined, and a very good archer."

"But will he hate it? Living at Vigil's Keep, stuck behind stone walls, separated from his family. Y'know, very few Wardens have any family to speak of, most of us come from messed-up backgrounds. I really don't think I've ever even _seen _an extended family like this one before." There was a wistful note in the mage's voice that made the bard want to hug her friend tightly.

"Perhaps that's the problem though, did you think of that? Maybe in the bosom of such a close family, the hole where his wife used to be is there forever, so that he can't move on."

Anders turned around, his hair slipping from her brush and her fingers, his forearms now resting on her knees. The pale brown eyes looking up at her, usually so merry, were tinged with anxiety. "Do you really think so? Because I really, really couldn't do to an adult what is done to us mages as children. Taking someone from their family… I just _couldn't_."

Leliana pushed the unruly hair back, her thumb rubbing at the crease between his brows. "I believe you are over-thinking this, Anders. No-one has asked you to conscript him, have they? Why don't you ask him if he would like to be a Warden? Explain how he would live."

His brow cleared. Anders scrambled to his feet, taking the bard's face between his hands and planting an enthusiastic kiss on her forehead. "You, dear lady, are an angel. You're right; what was I thinking? I'll go speak to him now."

_-oOo-_

The Dalish camp evoked memories of the one he had run away to as a boy. It had been a pleasant place to visit, and a boring place to live. Interesting though this visit had been, Zevran would be glad to leave in the morning.

"I need a word with you."

The appearance of a glowering King always brightened up a dull evening. Zev allowed his eyes to roam over his former comrade, aiming for maximum insolence. "Of course, my friend. You are always such delightful company."

The glower increased significantly. "You can pack that in, for a start. In private, please."

"As you wish,_ mio re_."

Once they were alone in the Royal Pavilion, Zevran watched Alistair fling his gloves on the table, and run his fingers through his short hair. As hospitality appeared to be lacking, the assassin took a chair unasked, and provocatively stuck his heels on the table. "So, what is it that causes you to fire commands at me this evening?"

Alistair turned to him, hazel eyes hard and suspicious and his jaw set tight. "I want to know what, in all the deepest depths of the Fade, you think you're doing."

"A sweeping statement, _amico mio_; I am doing all kinds of things. Perhaps you could be a shade more specific?"

"For days now you've been following Maddy around. Even when you aren't with her, I can see your eyes on her. What I want to know is what the hell you want with my _wife_?"

There was a tiny pause in which Zevran stared dumbstruck at the enraged King. Then his eyes hooded, hiding all emotion. "She is, of course, a very charming young lady." This enigmatic statement was delivered in a purr that Alistair couldn't fail to find provocative. The icy rage in the assassin's gut demanded that it be so.

Alistair's hand slammed down on the table. "You are _not_ doing this to me again, Zev," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

The cold, hard fury spread; it took significant effort for the assassin to keep his face calm. "You will have to excuse my ignorance, _Maestà_. What exactly have I done?"

"Spent your time slinking around my woman like an amoral alleycat. As though the world isn't _filled _with others who'd be happy enough to receive your attentions. Do you really think I didn't see you oiling your way around Melissa? What is it about my women, the only two I've ever cared for, that holds such special attraction for you, Zevran?"

Zev forced himself to stretch languorously, seemingly unconcerned. He would die before he allowed this petulant _ragazzo_ to see his anger. "Ah, yes, well of course, Mel was very fond of _oil_."

He'd expected Alistair to hit out, and had been ready to catch his punch, but it never came. When he finished stretching, and looked lazily at his antagonist, he found him still glowering, but with an unfathomable sadness in his eyes.

"I know she took you as a lover, Zev. As I'd relegated her to the status of a mistress, I could hardly protest, could I?" This was said much more quietly than anything previously. But before the assassin could respond, the glint and the determined look returned. "But Maddy is _different_, and I won't allow you to harass her."

"Your idea of harassment is quite different from mine, it seems."

"You will stay away from her."

Zevran shook his head. "I'm sorry Alistair, I cannot do that."

"If you touch her, I'll kill you."

_Enough_. Zev exploded out of his seat, landing about two inches from the infuriated King. "I find your opinion of your wife, your _pregnant_ wife… Oh yes, do not look so shocked, do you think there is anything said in this camp that I do not hear? Your opinion of your wife is very interesting, Alistair. You think she would cheat you? You think she would slide out of your bed and into mine? Tch. Melissa was a free spirit, you could not hold her and neither could I, and you were a fool if you thought otherwise. But you are right, your Madeleina_ is_ different; she will cleave to you all of your life, which is far more than you deserve."

Annoyed with himself for his outburst, Zevran turned on his heel to leave; but first, there was one more thing to be said. "Once, you let a woman die for your pernickety principles. If you do so again, I promise that, this time, your life will end at my hands. The Chantry shall not have her. I have sworn it."

Alistair hadn't moved a muscle since Zevran's loss of temper. "Well, we're in agreement on one thing, at least. But why, Zev? Why Maddy?"

The Antivan gritted his teeth; he really didn't need that question shoved up his nose right now. "You are presumptuous, Alistair. I did not swear an oath to Madeleina." He left quickly, before any more difficult, unwanted questions could be asked, disappearing into the shadows the instant he left the tent.

_-oOo-_

Once the Antivan had left, Alistair slumped into a seat feeling like an idiot. _Your opinion of your wife… _Maker, he'd never thought for a second that Maddy would… that she'd… he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. The sight of Zevran at her side, or watching her as she moved around camp… it had triggered a fury that really had nothing at all to do with Maddy, and everything to do with Melissa.

He'd never been sure,_ really_ sure that Mel had been faithful to him. The damned assassin had always been there, sharing too many smiles, too much flirting. Then, after the Landsmeet, after that _horrible_ conversation, which had pulled Alistair's heart to pieces, while Mel just seemed to shrug it off… Well, after that she made no secret of sleeping with the elf, and he'd never dared mention it. After all, when you've told a woman that you have to find and marry someone else, and that the best you can offer her is to be the bit on the side, it doesn't leave you with many rights.

Alistair rubbed his eyes, they felt hot and gritty. The main problem was, he was worried about Maddy. Ever since Anders had told her that she had magic, Maddy had changed. She was still sweet and caring, and he adored her more every day; but the vivacious girl who had cut him a rosebud in the Imperial gardens, who had slapped a mercenary in a tavern in Val Royeaux, was gone. He hadn't seen her in weeks. Her vivacity had been quenched by the crushing fear of the Chantry, of being made Tranquil. Maddy was frightened and he couldn't do a damn thing about it, and now that she was pregnant she was more afraid than ever.

_She's carrying the heirs to the throne; they wouldn't _dare _take her now_.

Unfortunately, her maternal instinct wasn't listening to reason, and he couldn't _do _anything to ease her fears. The Chantry was too big, too powerful, to just destroy overnight. Not that he wanted it destroyed, that way madness and lightning bolts lay, but he definitely wanted them controlled. He wanted to ensure that they couldn't behave this way, not now, not ever. That meant _politics_, and those wheels turned slowly, too slowly to soothe Maddy's hidden terror.

"_Mon mari_, what's wrong?" He hadn't heard her enter the tent and now she stood watching him, green eyes full of concern.

Alistair smiled at her, holding out his arms, "Nothing, my love. I've just been talking to Zev, and you know how annoying he can be. It's nothing."

Maddy accepted a cuddle, perched on his knee, kissed his forehead. "I don't know about annoying, but he scares me a little. I don't understand why Philippe is so interested in him."

Alistair went utterly still, and his question came out small and tight. "Philippe?"

"I know, I can't make sense of it, either. Philippe has always been so fastidious." She hugged him tight and planted another kiss on his forehead, not noticing his reaction. "All I can get out of my brother on the subject is that Zevran has hidden depths."

_I'm an idiot_.

_And I owe that bloody irritating Antivan assassin an apology._

_Arse._


	32. Chapter 32

_-oOo-_

The Dalish escorted them to the edge of the Brecilian Forest, assuring them that they would be honoured to receive a further visit from the_ Vhen'alas'Mamae_ anytime. Having thanked their hosts, the King's cavalcade headed north-west to South Reach, home of Teryn Bryland's son, the recently elevated Arl Darrel Bryland.

The size of their entourage and guard ensured a quiet trip; no bandits in their right mind attacked a full complement of guards wearing the King's colours, however rich the pickings may appear. Arl Bryland greeted them cordially, and with far less ceremony than his father, immediately endearing him to both the King and Queen. This may have been due to his unmarried state; the gift of Gwaren, bestowed upon Bryland senior at the Royal wedding, and Darrel's subsequent elevation to the Arldom, had been unexpected. The Arl was known to be hanging out for suitable wife, but in the meantime this was a bachelor establishment, and it showed.

The Arl informed his liege that no formal celebrations had been arranged. The local Banns knew that they may take potluck with their Arl whenever they pleased and, of course, the district was known for its excellent sport. Arl Bryland expressed the hope that his royal guests would treat his castle as their home during their stay. Alistair could cheerfully have hugged him for that.

A stack of messages awaited the King at South Reach. Messengers had, very sensibly, decided that risking Dalish arrows in order to locate him in the Forest was a foolish idea, and as South Reach was known to be the next stop on the itinerary, Eamon had directed all his correspondence there. As soon as he had washed the road dust from his person, Alistair put his feet up at the desk in the comfortable suite of rooms he and Maddy had been assigned and began to sift through them. Some of the news was distinctly troubling.

Skimming down a long report from Eamon on the current situation in Denerim, Alistair found one section enormously disturbing:

_There is a great deal of bad feeling towards mages at the moment, and it seems likely to get worse instead of better. Grand Cleric Leanna has announced that a nest of hedge mages and maleficar has been uprooted in the capital. The Chantry has interrogated them and received their testimony of others who practice these heresies. Those convicted are to be burned at the stake in the central square in Denerim. Those prepared to turn in their fellows will be granted the mercy of having their throats cut before the fires are lit. I have those most learned in the law searching for any way we can prevent these executions, as they seem designed purely to inflame the populace against mages. Unfortunately, our legal minds all currently inform me that, although such public executions fell out of fashion centuries ago, Chantry Law upholds them, and that there is nothing in Ferelden Law to gainsay their right._

After a slight struggle with himself, Alistair prevented a number of curses from escaping, any of which would have alerted his wife to the situation. He _really_ didn't want Maddy troubled with this right now. _Damn_ the Grand Cleric; she always seemed to find a way to operate just barely inside the law, where he couldn't touch her.

Sifting through the various sheets and scrolls, he found another message from Eamon, obviously dashed off in a hurry, expressing shock upon the arrival of the Templar prisoners under Gwaren's banner. He seemed to have difficulty believing that these sons of the Chantry had truly attempted to lay violent hands upon the King, and said that the Grand Cleric was already calling for their transfer into her custody. He finished by assuring Alistair that he would hold her off as long as possible, but that the relationship between Crown and Chantry was becoming increasingly difficult.

_You don't know the half of it. _

At some point, letting Eamon in on the Queen's secret would have to be faced; the Chancellor couldn't provide the best possible advice on dealing with the Chantry unless he was in full possession of the facts. Currently though, Alistair didn't dare do so; even if Eamon upheld him, he would undoubtedly tell his wife, and there was no way to predict Isolde's reaction, especially because Alistair had been instrumental in ensuring Connor was taken to the Circle for training. Isolde may wish to see Maddy suffer the same fate, or she may try to use the Queen's condition as a lever to get her son released. Either would be unacceptable; the situation had to be suppressed until Alistair could get a stranglehold on the Chantry or, at the very least, until Maddy's pregnancy could be officially announced, ensuring her popularity with the populace. Anders wanted to see her pass the three month mark before they did this; both he and Keeper Lanaya had agreed that this was the time when the chance of miscarriage became a lot less likely.

"Is there anything of interest from Eamon?" Maddy appeared from their bedchamber, untangling her wet curls with her fingers.

Alistair hastily turned, pinning a warm smile to his face. "Nothing worth worrying about. Come here and kiss me."

_-oOo-_

The list Ser Bryant had given them, of Templars who were likely to be appalled by the current regime, contained a couple of names in South Reach and also one in Lothering, which was next on the itinerary. Lothering was too small to really merit a royal visit, but it lay directly on the path to Redcliffe, and visiting it would be good for local morale; it had been hit harder by the Blight than anywhere except West Hill and Ostagar, and neither the land nor the population had recovered. Leliana carried a number of notes, written by the good Templar to each of these brethren, paving the way for her tentative enquiries.

"I take it you will not be coming to the Chantry with me, Anders? Do you have some other errand in town?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I've got someone I need to see." The mage appeared a touch distracted before focussing his gaze on her. "Meet me for a spot of lunch afterwards, my beauteous bard?

They parted at the Chantry gates, and Leliana watched the tall, loose-limbed mage stride off before she turned to enter the Chantry. She was going to have to do something about him at some point.

_-oOo-_

The shop that Anders entered appeared shabby, the sign peeling. Conversely, the inside was clean and warm, fragrant herbs lying in bunches next to the distinctive chopping boards with their bowl-shaped dip, the strange curved blades resting in protective sheaths. The proprietor had her back to him, carefully decanting dried chopped herbs into clean jars with knotted old hands.

Her voice was cracked, but firm, the accent strong. "I shall be with you in_ un momento, signore_."

Anders grinned affectionately, "That's perfectly alright milady; I'll just enjoy the view until then."

She spun around, a tiny elderly woman with snapping black eyes and white hair. "Anders! R_agazzo mio,_ what are you doing here? And in_ such_ clothes, are you mad?"

He slid behind the counter and hugged her. "What's wrong with my clothes, Rosetta? I'll have you know these are my _finest_ robes."

She fingered the fabric a little wistfully. "Fine indeed, but so blatant, and that staff! You will be taken for sure, and I with you."

"Oh." Anders rubbed his chin ruefully. "Has it really been that long since I visited?" He drew himself up in a heroic pose, while she folded her arms and regarded him balefully. "Signora Rosetta, allow me to introduce myself; Grey Warden Anders, at your service."

"_Cuore sacro di Andraste_, a Warden you say? Can it be?"

"For more than a year now." Being a Warden represented freedom and family to Anders, not pride, but seeing the awe in her face he felt an unusual glow. This woman had saved his life once, taking him in, hiding and feeding him when he was on the verge of starvation, running from the Tower and the Templars. Her opinion meant a lot to him and her safety even more; which was why he was here. "Rosie, we need to talk."

_-oOo-_

Alistair really didn't want this talk and had, in fact, been avoiding it for several days. His excuse that there was little privacy on the road just wore out and therefore he found himself outside Zevran's room, knocking on the door.

"_Entrare_."

On entering the room he was greeted by the sight of the assassin poised by the window with his daggers in his hands. "Maker's Breath, Zev, do you greet all the servants like that, too? I'm surprised you can get any of them to come in here."

Zevran put his daggers back on the table and sat down. "One cannot be too careful." He waved Alistair to a chair. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit, _maestà_?"

Alistair sighed, "Please don't call me that, Zev. It's bad enough from strangers; in your mouth it sounds like you're sticking one of those knives in me."

"My apologies, _mio re_."

"Or _that_." Alistair crossed his arms, already irritated. Why did this bloody Antivan have to be so _annoying_? "We have an Antivan ambassador at Court, you realise. I_ know_ what you're calling me."

Zevran's unrepentant smirk and honeyed purr got his blood up even more. "My dear friend Alistair, what is it you wish of me?"

Barbed banter was _not_ making this any easier. "I- I came to apologise."

The smirk vanished, replaced with a disconcerting blankness. "Oh? And why would you do such a thing?"

Alistair set his jaw. Having started this, he had to go through with it. "I misjudged you. About Maddy. I didn't know that you… and Philippe... I'm sorry."

The assassin crossed one leg elegantly over the other. "I'm not sure I understand you. What is it that you believe you now know about _Principe_ Philippe and me?" His expression was carefully neutral; Alistair had seen _that_ face often enough to know _something_ was going on here.

"Well, you know… I mean, Maddy said that you and he…" Alistair trailed off, suddenly realising that Maddy hadn't said anything of the sort, that what she had _actually_ said was that Philippe found Zevran interesting, and if that was the case then he might have just stuck his royal foot in it. "Not that you are- Just that- Oh Maker." Nothing was going to make this any better. If he'd just dropped Philippe in the shit, Maddy was going to_ kill_ him. "Look, can I start over?" Alistair scrubbed his hand through his hair. "I apologise for thinking that you were hanging around Maddy, I was wrong. And, I really did_ not_ think that Maddy would… do anything, I just saw red because… well, because of Mel. I'm sorry."

Zevran waved a dismissive hand. "Do not concern yourself, Alistair; it is not the first time I have been accused of attempting to sleep with someone's wife, after all. Of course, usually, it is true, no?" The smirking mask was firmly back in place.

_-oOo-_

"It's not_ safe_ here, Rosie."

Signora Rosetta plonked a plate of her special double-baked biscuits on the table and shook her head at her young visitor. "It has never been safe here; for us it has never been safe anywhere. You know this better than most."

Anders moodily dunked a biscuit. "Yes well, there's not-safe as in 'the Templars might drag me back to the Circle Tower' and then there's not-safe as in 'the insane Grand Cleric is going to have me burnt alive'." He shook his head in disbelief, still not able to take it in. "That's the news that Alistair received from Denerim this morning; that mad bitch is burning mages. And, if they're really, really good, and give her the name of someone_ else_ to burn as well, she's kind enough to cut their throats first. It's going to turn into an epidemic, Rosie."

Black eyes regarded him calmly from across the table. "I am nearly eighty years old, Anders. I am fortunate to have lived so long as I have. And you, you now have security, safety; one of the famous Grey Wardens and on first name terms with the King. It is the others who should receive your concern; the young ones and the children, no? You have power, influence. You can help them."

He stroked the staff which leaned against the table, frowning, "We're trying, Rosie, but it's difficult. Politics is so_ slow_."

Rosetta regarded him fondly. "You think I don't know that? You never asked why I left Antiva, did you?" She poured more precious Antivan coffee from the pot on the table. "Politics there were… are… a mess. Kings come and go, nobles are bought and sold and only two institutions hold any real power; the banks and the _Corvi_." He looked up questioningly and she translated, "The Crows."

"Oh, them. Yes, we have one with us. Well, a former one."

She raised her eyebrows, "A very fortunate person then; not many get to precede the word 'Crow' with the word 'former' and live. Back when the Circle and the Chantry clashed in Antiva, the Circle was hit hard; Antivans are, on the whole, very devout, and the Circle got little support. In the end it was the _Corvi_ who stepped in and prevented the annihilation of mages; they considered them too valuable a resource to lose. Circumstances were mired in politics and, as you say, things were moving too slowly to save the mages. The Corvi supported the formation of a _resistenza_; to save them, to keep them safe, hidden, until the problem blew over."

Anders looked at her, thunderstruck. "Are you saying I should head up a resistance movement? Andraste's tits, Rosie, do you know how much trouble I got in with Alistair just for saving a few kiddies?"

She spread her hands and shrugged. "I don't know the King; only you know if you can do this with his help or behind his back. Only you can say whether you are prepared to do it at all. But, only you have the freedom to do it, _ragazzo mio_. You are possibly the only mage in Ferelden right now who can move freely, and without fear of the Chantry."

_-oOo-_

The two faces opposite Leliana were very different, one a little chubby and good tempered, and the other angular and a touch saturnine. They had one thing in common though; when they looked up from Ser Bryant's note, both faces were unhappy.

"Are you saying that the Grand Cleric had the Knight Commander removed?" There was disbelief in Ser Lundy's voice, and his good-humoured face was slack with it. Ser Vernon frowned at him, thoughtfully; gauntleted fingers tapping on the table between them.

Leliana shook her head. "This is not a thing we can know for certain. Ser Bryant's testimony certainly suggests it, and we have seen evidence with our own eyes that some of the doses being sent out to your brethren are being tampered with." She looked them over, carefully noting the little tells as to their reactions. "Have you heard nothing that troubles you? Nothing that makes you wonder if the work that is being done truly expresses the will of Andraste and the Maker?"

Ser Lundy flushed nervously, "Well, of course there have been rumours, but you must understand, my lady, the Chantry is a hotbed of gossip. If I believed everything I hear…" His laugh contained no humour. "Then I would have lost my faith_ years_ ago."

"I know that well enough Ser, I was a lay sister for several years. But this is not Chantry gossip; this is fact. The field agents are being whipped into a frenzy. Children brought into the care of the Chantry and the Circle are being abused by those responsible for their care. I have seen this with my own eyes."

Ser Vernon shifted uncomfortably; his heavy frown and grim air reminded Leliana of Nathaniel. She pushed the thought aside. "My lady, there have always been abuses. It's highly regrettable and nothing I would uphold, but-"

She swept that aside; it was an age old response. "And is it also merely 'highly regrettable' that four Templars lie in Fort Drakon for openly attacking the _King_? You didn't see them Ser, they were without reason, almost mindless in their hatred of the mages that accompanied His Majesty."

"_What_?" Both Templars were regarding her with wide, horrified eyes. She bit down on her anger; it was merely unfortunate to beat children, but horrific to raise a hand against Alistair.

"Again, this I saw with my own eyes. King Alistair is furious and yet, despite their treasonous behaviour, the Grand Cleric calls for their release into her custody." While they were still digesting this, she hit them with the next snippet. "And now, we hear, an old, barbaric custom is being resurrected: apostates are being tortured and publically burned in Denerim."

Ser Lundy squirmed and looked away. "My lady, I owe my allegiance to the Chantry. I took vows to that effect. I do not agree with the… the _changes_ that are occurring at the moment, but being a Templar is about upholding Andraste's Law, not second-guessing the Grand Cleric's interpretation of those laws. If I was asked to personally behave against my conscience… but that is not the case. I'm sorry. I will, of course, disclose nothing that would cause any further friction between Chantry and Crown; the mere idea of a rift between them… But I cannot help you."

As it had been clear to Leliana for some minutes that she would receive no aid from him, she evinced no surprise. "Thank you for hearing me out, Sers." She nodded to both of them and left the small room, passing into the Chantry vestibule. Once outside, she stopped at the Chantry gates, breathing the sweet summer air.

When she heard the expected step behind her, she turned, smiling. "Ser Vernon."

"Lady Leliana." His bow was stiff, precise. "What do you require from me?"

_-oOo-_

_To Her Holiness the Divine_

_Representative of Holy Andraste in Thedas,_

_Greetings_

_The relations between Chantry and Crown here in Ferelden have always been extremely cordial, and it is with sorrow that we write to express to you our anger and dismay at the decay of these relations that is, at this moment, occurring within our borders._

_We have waited with great patience. We remember what it was like to take up High Office, and the potential for blunders that was offered to us at that time. We had hoped to see that Grand Cleric Leanna would settle into her role, and become the staunch ally in the protection of Ferelden that her predecessor was._

_Unfortunately, we find that the situation is deteriorating, rather than improving. The public execution of our subjects, without trial or reference to our Right of Justice, is abhorrent to us, and we shall do all in our power to prevent this usurpation of our authority._

_We write to you, the final authority on the Will of Andraste, in the hope that you will support us in this, and consider appointing a Grand Cleric more in tune with the needs of the faithful in Ferelden. Nothing would please us more than to be able to preserve the fraternal relationship we have always enjoyed with our brothers and sisters in the Chantry._

_We pray to the Maker and Andraste that this happy state of affairs may come to pass._

_Alistair Theirin _

_By the Grace of the Maker, King of Ferelden_

_Written at South Reach, this eighth day of August, in the second year of our reign._

_-oOo-_

_Eamon_

_I couldn't care less whether Loopy Leanna has managed to stay inside the law or not, she is __not_ _doing this to Ferelden subjects. Enclosed is a copy of a letter I've sent to the Divine in Val Royeaux. Take the Palace guard and__ stop__ this atrocity, you have my full authority. I enclose also a list of Templars who might be found to be unhappy with the current regime. We'll be seeing some of them ourselves, but I enclose letters of introduction for those based in Denerim and the surrounding area. I suggest you make tentative contact with them and, at the very least, ensure that they don't accept poisoned lyrium, and go insane, before we need them._

_Sorry Eamon but, unless the Divine sends us a sane GC, I've had enough. We need to make ready for the storm._

_Alistair._

_-oOo-_


	33. Chapter 33

_-oOo-_

_Nothing lived here. No earth, no seed, no sun, even the air was still and dead. Stone walls, blank and grey, in every direction. She turned corner after corner, feet pattering on cold stone desperately searching; the clank of metal behind her always getting closer. Bodies impeded her, robes rustling against her skin as she shoved past, avoiding meeting their empty eyes. She had to find them, had to get there in time, but somehow she couldn't run any longer, couldn't get to her feet, her legs buckling beneath her when she tried. So, she shuffled on her knees on the cold stone, pushing the forest of robes out of her way._

_The crowd opened before her and there they were; the boy with deep green eyes and red-gold hair, the girl with hair and eyes as brown as a nut. They were beautiful and she cried out in joy and relief, tears streaming down her face. _

_Until they looked up and she saw into the depths of their eyes; they held no spark, no life, and no love. There was a bright blue rune, a complex arcane symbol, branded to their foreheads. It sunk into their skin and vanished, as cold metal gauntlets closed on her arms and bit into her flesh._

The grip on her arms was real. "Shhh, it's alright. Shhh, come on Maddy; it's just a dream."

Warm voice, warm skin, warm bed. Her face was wet and her heart felt like it was breaking. Strong hands on her arms turned her over, pulled her against a wall of comfort. The dream was gone, but the emotion remained and she wailed against his chest as though it had really happened, as though her children were broken husks.

"It's fine sweetheart, everything's fine." Lips on her forehead, pressed there as though to brand her themselves. "There's nothing to be afraid of, I've got you."

Oh, how she wished she could believe it.

_-oOo-_

Leliana bounced into the sitting room of the royal suite, a determined tilt to her chin and a sparkle in her eyes.

"Not dressed?" She tutted briskly. "Come on, my love, we're going shopping. South Reach has quite nice shops; not like Val Royeaux of course, but nearly as good as Denerim."

Alistair had grabbed the bard after breakfast, just before he was swept away by fawning nobles; Maddy was feeling low, could she distract her? Leliana felt sure she could rise to _that _challenge.

"Shopping?" Maddy made a face. "I have everything I need, and besides we're leaving soon, aren't we? Kalli is packing."

After several days the advantages of South Reach had been largely exhausted; the nobles were as pleased with their King and Queen as was possible, the Templars had been combed for those with the values and standards that could prove useful, and Anders had spent a careful couple of days making tentative contact with the local Collective and apostate community. It was time to move on.

"But Maddy… dresses and ribbons and_ shooooes_. We won't be able to shop properly again until we reach Highever, which is_ months_ away."

Maddy sighed, unimpressed. "Oh, all right." She set off into the bedchamber to dress. "Where are we going next?" she asked over her shoulder as she went.

"Lothering. It's not a large town, but it is… was a pretty one; I spent several years in the Chantry there and loved it." Leliana followed her in and held up a dress, regarding it critically. "Not this one, the colour doesn't suit you." She handed the Queen a soft brown dress instead. "I'm a bit afraid of seeing it actually, I haven't been back since the Blight and it was hit very, very hard."

"You mean burnt? Destroyed?" Maddy's voice was a little muffled as she tugged the dress over her head.

"All the land was b…" Leliana stopped, staring for a moment at her friend, still engulfed in fabric. She gathered her thoughts and continued. "They had no troops to defend them; Loghain called them all away, so the Darkspawn rolled over it, killed the townsfolk and tainted everything." She picked up a comb and went to help with Maddy's hair, her face thoughtful.

Shopping first, as promised. Later, once she was alone, she could take some time to think about the shocking, dangerous, but potentially amazing idea that had just occurred to her.

_-oOo-_

"_Entrare."_

As Philippe's auburn head and immaculately dressed body passed the door, Zevran released his loose hold upon the daggers by his chair. "Good morning, _il mio principe_. What do you wish of me?"

The brilliant blue eyes that fixed on him had been haunting his dreams of late. Disturbingly, not all of them were erotic dreams. "Must I want something from you, _mon cher_?" The lips that curved into a smile had played a prominent role too. "Other than the pleasure of your delightful company, of course."

The assassin ensured that he at least appeared relaxed, but was feeling decidedly edgy as he invited Philippe to take a seat opposite him. Not that he had any objections in principle to such a handsome visitor, but since that moment on the battlements of Gwaren, he had been… not exactly avoiding the prince, but not seeking him out either. Their entertaining flirtation had become something else, and Zevran was not certain he knew what it was, or how to behave, any longer.

Philippe didn't immediately take the proffered seat. Instead he came and perched on the table in front of Zevran's chair and held out a package he was carrying. It was cylindrical, wrapped in coloured paper. "I've brought you a gift."

"A gift? For me?" Zev took the package; a jar and quite heavy. "What is it?"

"Unwrap it and see." The paper was thin and ripped easily. It was indeed a jar, ceramic and plain. The faint rattling sound as he moved it was familiar. It was tightly lidded, but easily opened with the tip of a dagger.

"Oh." That smell, it was glorious. "Antivan coffee? Where did you find this?" Zevran breathed in the rich aroma; for weeks he'd been pulling faces at the ubiquitous Ferelden tea, but good coffee, real Antivan coffee, was a genuine rarity in this blighted country.

"Anders pointed me to a little herb and spice shop in town run by an Antivan lady." Philippe had remained where he was, one leg swinging on the edge of the table, his eyes on Zevran's face. "I trust it is to your taste?"

"It is marvellous, a superb gift. Thank you." He was truly grateful, but now more uncomfortable than ever. "But, if I may ask, why have you brought me a gift?"

"Why?" The expression on the Orlesian's face was highly disturbing; gentle amusement, intensity and a slight blush of unexpected shyness. "I believe it is customary to bring gifts, _mon amour_."

Zevran's hand on the jar trembled slightly, his heart hammering. He knew enough Orlesian to know what had just been said. He swallowed hard, unsure what to say next, how to diffuse this, to bring it back to a place he was comfortable. What came out, weakly, was not helpful. "Customary for what?"

The elegant leg slipped from the table, a hand reached for one of his and brought it to sculpted lips in the formal manner of the Orlesian court, the prince's mouth barely brushing the back of his fingers before releasing it. "It is customary to offer gifts during a courtship, _mon cher_. I am glad that this one meets with your approval. Now, I'll bid you _au revoir_."

"A _what_?" His astonishing guest was already heading for the door. "Wait, you cannot mean this; a _courtship_? Why would you do such a thing?" Philippe turned back to him, a strange smile tugging at his mouth. Zevran stood, placing the jar on the table, and gestured to the large bed. "If you want me, _il mio principe_, you may take me now, there is no need for gifts." He crossed the room to stand before the other man, feeling the beginnings of arousal at the prospect.

"Delectable though your body is, _mon doux_, I have set my sights rather higher." The hand that moved to tuck a strand of blond hair behind a pointed ear was smooth and soft. The hand of a nobleman, who had never been required to work, never had to wield a weapon other than for sport… never had to kill. This whole situation was stupid, ridiculous, the prince was a fool, a madman. "I want it all; your body, your mind and your heart. And, as you have run from me ever since I expressed a hint of such an interest, it seems I must court you formally. If, one morning soon, I wake to hear that you have taken ship back to Antiva, then I will know that you have rejected my hand." There was a slight tremble to the smiling mouth, vulnerability in the blue eyes, but the smooth voice remained calm and level. "Until then, I shall continue to hope."

"Your _hand_?" He must really be mad. There was no other explanation. "What, do you think to woo me like some simpering maid? And then marry me, no doubt. Oh yes, what a sight that would be, eh? An Orlesian prince and an elven assassin. Which of us will wear the pretty dress?"

Zevran was hitting a fine streak of mockery, a soothing wall of protective nonsense that masked his fear and uncertainty, and, all the time, Philippe watched him with that strange disturbing smile. "A marriage is of minds and hearts, Zevran, not a Chantry ceremony. So yes, I hope to woo you, win you and marry you." Again he lifted the assassin's slim, calloused fingers and again he bowed, brushing his lips over them, every inch an Orlesian nobleman. "_Adieu, mon coeur_, I shall see you later, I hope. Enjoy your _café_."

Following Philippe's departure, Zevran remained where he was, staring after him, for some time. Anyone passing his room after this may have heard a stream of impassioned Antivan curses that went on even longer.

_-oOo-_

The first day on the road had been dull, lowering everyone's spirits. It had rained almost as soon as they were safely away from the Arl's embrace and - as no-one fancied another night of his boring stories of hunting and hounds - they decided to press on through it. Maddy, Philippe and Kallian were unused to riding in the wet, and were soon miserable. Zevran, with his general hatred of the vagaries of the Ferelden climate, also looked unhappy; far too unhappy, in fact, to put it down to the weather. Looking at his furious face, Alistair had wondered what on Thedas had put him in such a black mood. Leliana was bearing up well in the storm; she had always been an all-weather girl, he remembered. Alistair, himself, was merely resigned, and thankful not to be in full plate. Maker, he'd never forget the _hours _he'd spent cleaning rusty armour, until he couldn't get the stench of armour polish off his fingers, ever.

Now, warm and dry, with the rain drumming on the roof of the tent, and a hot dinner inside him, Alistair was ready to finally agree with his wife about the advantages of travelling this way. He sat at his table, frowning over the map and tapping his finger on Lake Calenhad. Alistair deliberately hadn't arranged a formal visit to the Circle Tower; the only way to find out what the hell was happening there would be to take them by surprise. Instead, he had sent a bland note, informing the First Enchanter when he would be arriving at Redcliffe, and that he hoped Irving would be able to attend him there. If he could get Irving alone, then he was sure he could get a truthful report on how serious the situation was.

"A messenger from Denerim, sire." Alistair looked up and nodded to the guard holding back the tent flap, and the soaked messenger was ushered in. He knelt and proffered a package.

"Thank you. Go and get dry, and ask the servants for some supper and a place to sleep. If I have replies, I'll have them ready for the morning."

"Very good, Your Majesty." He backed out of the tent, leaving Alistair to break open the package. Two letters; one bearing Eamon's seal and one bearing the Grey Warden griffon. He opened the latter first; Eamon's letters were usually long and depressing, while reports from Amaranthine were less frequent and more interesting as a rule.

_To Alistair Theirin, King and Brother Warden,_

_Greetings,_

_Monseigneur, as you know, it is not my way to bother you with details of Grey Warden business. I recognise that, sadly, your royal duties keep you from us and will probably always do so. But on this occasion, I have witnessed an outrage that I must bring to your attention, as I feel it will anger you as much as it does me._

_You will have heard of the mage burnings in Denerim? One of the apostates the Chantry captured was a young woman, Helsa, whom I had been considering for a Warden. In fact, the only reason she had not already been recruited was that she has a young family to care for, so making her a Warden would not be fair to the little ones._

_When I heard that she was to die, I travelled immediately to Denerim to conscript her. When I presented myself at the Chantry however, I was told that I could not see Helsa, or any of the other prisoners. They were apparently considered too dangerous to be allowed in contact with anyone other than their Templar guards. This angered me, and I went to see your Arl Eamon, hoping that he would intervene. But he did not wish to upset the Chantry, and advised me instead to attend the executions, and exercise the Right of Conscription before the fires were lit._

_This I did, and Grand Cleric Leanna informed me, with a smug smile I wanted to slap her for (pardon, Seigneur, but I am still heated when I write this), that none of the 'heretics' would be of use to the Wardens. When I asked her why, she directed a Templar to show me. They had removed their hands and their tongues! Each and every one of them had been maimed and silenced, so that they could not cast. Also so that they could not protest their treatment at the hands of the Chantry, do you not agree?_

_It makes my blood boil, seigneur. Why were these executions permitted? Your Arl was out in force with the Palace guard, but only to keep order; the Chantry burned five people, two of them still alive and the mob were incited to bloodlust against mages…_

There was more, but at this point Alistair stopped reading, cursing fluently, and reached for the other letter. What did Eamon think he was doing? He'd been given full authority to stop those executions, in fact, although Alistair couldn't remember exactly what he had written, he was pretty sure he had _ordered _them to be stopped.

Eamon's letter was somewhat enlightening.

_The situation in Denerim that day was untenable. They had the fires completely ringed by Templars and the common folk were so stirred by the Grand Cleric's speeches about the dangers of magic that they were a hairsbreadth from rioting. The Palace Guard and the City Guard did their best to keep order without causing the deaths of too many citizens, but I assure you that, if I had done as you asked and forced them to stop the executions, then the combined forces of the Templars and the mob would have been too much for us. Nothing would have been achieved by handing the Chantry a victory of that magnitude._

_I'm sorry Alistair; if I had foreseen what it would be like, I would have taken an army. We shall have to see what response you now get from the Divine. I agree that we must prepare for the storm, but we must also take care not to trigger an Exalted March._

Alistair sat back, rubbed his hands through his hair and groaned. Damn it, his letter to the Divine would now look like mere bluster. There_ had_ to be a better way to manage this situation. He called to the door guard, who pulled back the flap in response.

"Get Anders in here, would you?"

As the guard went to do his bidding, his place was taken by Leliana, who tripped in, soaking wet, and carrying a small pot. "Maker, have you been swimming? You're drenched." Alistair left his seat and fished in a nearby trunk for a cloth.

"I went out riding. Is Maddy here?" She took the cloth gratefully and wiped her streaming face.

"She's laid on the bed reading, just go through." The wet bard ducked through the curtain into the sleeping area, and he heard Maddy exclaiming and offering her a dry robe to wear.

"You summoned me, O Mighty Ruler?"

Alistair spun round, not currently inclined to match Anders banter or his grin. Instead he thrust both letters at the mage. "Read these. Leonie's first."

There was a short delay while Anders perused them. They could hear the indistinct murmur of voices from behind the curtain as the girls chatted quietly. By halfway through Leonie's letter, the grin had entirely vanished from the mage's face. By the end, a faint coruscation of magic shimmered around his shaking hands. "What the _fuck_ happened? Eamon was meant to stop it."

"Read the other one"

Even though the note from Eamon was short, Anders sat looking at it for a long while. When he finally looked up, sadness had overtaken fury in his eyes. "She's got the common people behind her; turned them all into mage-haters." He shrugged dispiritedly. "I suppose it wasn't a very big step for most of them."

"I'm sorry, Anders. If I'd been there, I could have turned the mob. However much authority I give Eamon, he's not the King." Alistair's voice was soft, apologetic. "I should have ridden to Denerim, intervened personally. This is my fault."

"It's not your-" Anders stopped dead and both men turned to face the same direction, drawn by the taste of Maddy's magic on their tongues. "Is she…?"

"Seems like it."

There was a hoot of triumph from the curtained-off area and Leliana appeared, bearing her pot and beaming with mischievous glee. "Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you."

_-oOo-_

Maddy curled in her chair watching everyone's faces. The argument had been raging for hours. Philippe and Zevran had now been added to the mix and had inserted their six-coppers-worth too.

Leliana was earnest, positive that her plan could work, that it could turn everything around, and that it was _right_. Up to a point Zevran supported her, but had less faith in the suggestion that this could also keep Maddy safe from the Chantry. Philippe had been quiet, listening and absorbing, his eyes coming back to his sister's face over and over. Anders looked torn in half; the mage in him believed it was a terrible plan, but the Warden said it had to happen. Kallian kept her mouth shut; she leant on the back of Maddy's chair, providing the same solid support she had ever since the revelation at the logging camp. She was proving to be an enormous comfort to the beleaguered Queen.

Alistair was having none of it.

"Absolutely not! Exposing Maddy in this manner is the _last_ thing we want to do. I _have _to keep a lid on her abilities at least until we can remove the maniacs from the Chantry."

"Unfortunately, _il mio re_, Leliana is right about this much at least. This plan will go a long way to achieving that goal as, if it is done correctly and subtly, we will be able to sway the common folk in droves. Also the nobles, as they think with their purses, no?"

"And what about Maddy's safety?" Alistair's mouth was set in stubborn lines. "If the Templars come for her, I'll go to war, I swear it."

Leliana's voice was persuasive, soothing, working hard to convince him. "Don't you see Alistair; she's bound to be exposed sooner or later; you heard what happened at Gwaren. We can't hide her forever. This way it's under our control; we can show her in the best possible light, and, if they do come for her after this, the common folk and the nobles will both _join _you at war."

"That's assuming your plan works, Leliana." Anders' face was sombre. "If they just see her as a mage, they could hand her over to the Chantry themselves."

"Over my dead body."

"_Oui, mon frère, _and mine also." Philippe stretched, his eyes again returning to his sister. "_M____a chérie__**, **_you have said nothing, and yet your opinion is perhaps the most important."

Maddy clasped her hands together nervously, looking around at their waiting faces. "There's something that not all of you know. It… makes this more difficult." She glanced at Alistair and he nodded encouragingly. He was right, it was time. "I'm pregnant."

There was a squeal from Leliana, who then looked round at the unsurprised faces. "Am I the only one who didn't know?" she asked, affronted.

Alistair blinked at her, surprised, "We only told Philippe; he_ is_ her brother, after all."

"I knew because I'm her healer."

"And Zevran apparently eavesdrops." Alistair folded his arms and gave the assassin a challenging glare.

Leliana looked at Kalli, the only one left. "What?" The elf squirmed, uncomfortable with the attention. "I'm her maid; she hasn't bled in two months."

"_Anyway_," said Maddy, trying to get the conversation back on track, "what this means is that I have to put my babies first. I can't risk the Chantry taking them away. I-I'm _terrified_ of that." Despite her best efforts her voice trembled.

"Maker, Maddy, they won't. The whole country would rise up against them if they tried to claim the heirs to the throne."

"Alistair is right, _m____a chérie; _this you need have no fear of. Is this why you have black circles under your eyes?" Philippe frowned direfully at his brother-in-law. "Alistair, you should have told her it was not so."

"He-ey, I have been telling her. She doesn't believe me."

"Truly, they will really be safe? Whatever happens?" Maddy anxiously scanned every face; they were all smiling or nodding, even the cynical Zevran appeared undisturbed on this point. It felt like an enormous weight rolling off her shoulders; her own safety meant nothing in comparison. "Then I'll do it. I'm sick of hiding, of being afraid. I think Leliana is right, I was given a gift, just as the Dalish said." She squared her shoulders. "I should use it to help people."

Looking into her husband's anxious eyes, she really, really hoped she'd made the right decision.

_-oOo-_


	34. Chapter 34

_-oOo-_

Leliana and Anders rolled into the Royal tent, looking rather the worse for wear. Not drunk, precisely, but certainly merry.

Alistair looked up from his notes. "Everything went as expected?"

Anders tried to burp discreetly, and failed on the discretion part. "Yup. We toured every tavern, both in Lothering, and the surrounding villages. Word will get around; we should have a big crowd."

"Good." The King looked at his somewhat pink-cheeked bard. "What about the Chantry, Leliana?"

"I spoke to Ser Ferant this afternoon. He puts a lot of faith in Ser Bryant's opinion; he used to serve under him. Although I made sure he wasn't suspicious about why, he has committed to being among the Chantry delegates tomorrow."

"There are no others who will support us?"

"Ser Ferant thinks there might be, but he needs time to sound them out. We won't have them by tomorrow, I'm afraid."

Alistair gave a tense nod. "It will have to be enough. If the Chantry tries to cause trouble, we'll treat it as an attack on the Crown, and react accordingly."

"Oh, goody." Anders grinned in the face of Alistair's disapproving frown. "What? Come on, do you know how rare it is to have a _legitimate_ opportunity to blow up Templars?"

"We don't want trouble tomorrow, Anders. My _wife_ will be in the centre of this." Tension vibrated in Alistair's voice, he felt like he would fly apart long before tomorrow was over. Why had he allowed her to talk him into this madness?

"Alistair…" He was unexpectedly enfolded in a wine-scented hug. How did Leliana manage to move so fast even when she was piddled? "You _know_ we won't allow anyone to harm Maddy. Trust us, trust me."

He returned the hug, vaguely comforted. "I know. Go to bed, both of you. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

_-oOo-_

Rather than put too much strain on the hospitality of the Bann of Lothering, who only had a manor house at his disposal, the King had elected to set up camp as usual. It would be to their advantage tomorrow. There was a clink of armour and occasional distant murmur of voices from the perimeter of the camp, where the guard shift stood watch.

The fire was burning low, and only a solitary figure sat by it.

He'd been watching for some time, long enough to see the signs of strain in the slim, elegant figure, seated very upright in the wooden chair. Long enough to see how his fingers twisted together, the worried furrows in his brow. Cursing himself for a fool, Zevran slipped out of the protective shadows and dropped his hands onto Philippe's tense shoulders, skilfully pressing just _so_.

"You must relax and sleep, _il mio principe_. You will be of no use tomorrow otherwise."

Philippe acknowledged this with a small nod, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "I'm afraid for her. If this goes badly…"

"If this goes badly a great many people will die; all of those foolish enough to attack us. Trust me; I will protect her, as I swore I would." The muscles were giving way under his hands, but the tension spiralled through the prince's whole frame. It would take more than this to release it.

There was a tiny choke of laughter, almost a sob, and a hand came up to cover one of Zev's briefly and squeeze. "And this should reassure me? I don't want you to be hurt either."

Zevran laughed harshly. "You think they could? The only people in this vicinity who could even think of taking me down are all in this camp tonight. Sleeping, I hope; as you should be."

"Can you stand against a mob, _mon amour_? For if Leliana cannot work the crowd as she says, then that is what we will face."

"Not alone, but I will not be alone."

Philippe sighed wearily, but a little of the tension went out of him. "True, a mage of Anders' stature can deal with many, ___n'est__-ce ____pas_? You must think me very foolish."

"Not foolish, _il mio principe_, just not born to this, not trained to embrace it." Skilled fingers moved up to press gently on the nape of the seated man. "This is why you should not be thinking of me as you have. You do not know me; do not know what I am and what I've done. I am not fit for such as you."

Philippe's head relaxed back against leather armour and he sighed as the tension flowed out. "I believe I know who you are. Who you have been is not of interest to me."

It was like picking at a painful scab, yet Zevran could not resist. "You're an Imperial Prince of Orlais, what could you possibly want with an elven assassin, other than a little amusement?"

He saw the prince's lips twist into a wry smile. "So cruel, to throw my blood in my face. Have I ever treated you as an elf? From the first moment we met, you defied that role and I have never seen you as such."

"You seek a romantic fairytale, _caro mio_. You have no place in my world, nor I in yours."

"We shall see. Every morning I wake and you are still here. It's enough, for now."

"You are quite mad, _il mio principe_. But if you must pursue this lunacy, then come to bed." A frown immediately crossed Philippe's face, and Zevran hastened to explain. "No, that was not an invitation for sex, much though I would wish it to be. But, perhaps you will sleep better tonight in my company, yes?"

Philippe stood and stretched, but he was shaking his head. "No, although I thank you for the offer; your excellent ministrations will suffice to allow me to sleep unaided, I think." He took Zevran's hand and bowed over it with courtly grace. "_Bon nuit, mon amour. _I pray to the good Maker that we all live to see the next."

_-oOo-_

Brown curls tangled across the pillow, tickling his nose. The quality of light slanting under the tent flaps suggested it was still early. Alistair shifted slightly, scratching his itchy face, and slung an arm around his sleeping wife. She was so small and slender. So fragile. For the first time, he wished she was a Ferelden noble, trained to fight. He'd be a lot less nervous today if she had a couple of daggers at her belt and knew how to use them.

He'd also feel better if he could face today in full plate, able to protect her himself. Unfortunately, that would cause too many raised eyebrows. Today was a full ceremonial walkabout, with the local Bann, to inspect the severity of the situation in Lothering, and to reassure the locals that their King shared their concerns. He could get away with wearing a sword, and perhaps a leather jerkin rather than silk, but that was all, really. The other problem was that the King's Own would not be expecting trouble, and he couldn't give them any kind of hint. He trusted in their training, though; they would react quicker than anyone else.

Alistair snuggled behind Maddy, burying his face in her hair, breathing deeply of her fragrance. He was comforted by the knowledge that at least Kalli and Zev would be watching her like hawks.

_Sweet Andraste; forgive us for what we are to do, and in your mercy keep her and our babies safe._

_-oOo-_

"Good morning, Your Majesty. A beautiful day, is it not?" Alistair forestalled Bann Kester's deep bow and took his hand, shaking it firmly. He needed this man onside today, of all days, and would not stint on the small gestures.

"Good to see you, Kester. My wife will just be a few more minutes preparing, and then we can depart." The delay was deliberate; _everything_ today was deliberate, it had been planned in every possible detail. Alistair leaned towards the Bann conspiratorially. "In truth, Kester we have happy news. My letter was sent to the Palace only this morning, so you will be the first to know. Queen Madeleina is in a delicate condition; if Andraste is kind, then the succession will be secured by the end of Drakonis."

The Bann's small blue eyes, nestling in a cushion of fat and wrinkles, widened with delight. "Sire, this is marvellous news, wonderful indeed!" He seized Alistair's hand, which he had only just relinquished, and pumped it enthusiastically. "I am honoured with your confidence, may I be the first to congratulate you."

On cue, Maddy appeared from the Royal Pavilion, in perfect time to offer the Bann her hand and receive his heartiest congratulations. Alistair watched fondly as she played up her demure role. A large part of her safety today was dependent on this piece of news getting around, and Bann Kester and his lady wife were notorious gossips. Madeleina accepted the Bann's arm as they strolled in the direction of Lothering, with Kallian and Zevran taking up positions next to Maddy. Alistair offered his arm to the Bann's delighted wife and the rest of the party formed up around them.

The game was on.

_-oOo-_

"As you will shortly see, Sire, the situation is appalling and the consequences far-reaching. It is nigh on impossible to attract new blood into the area under the circumstances." Bann Kester was on a roll and Alistair was encouraging him. The more of this kind of talk they heard today, the better.

They had been through the actual town of Lothering, where most of the damage was structural. The majority of the original populace had either fled or died when the darkspawn flooded north from Ostagar, and the final defence had left the buildings in a poor state. This would not normally have been such a big issue; buildings can be repaired and towns re-populated, provided the area is thriving enough to require the services of the tradesmen who would move in seeking profit.

Now, as the Bann and his royal guests, followed by a stream of townsfolk, strolled out towards the nearest farmsteads, they began to see the extent of the problem. Alistair heard Maddy make a small noise of distress, and closed his eyes briefly, praying she would hold it together.

It was almost the beginning of Kingsway and the farmers should have been preparing to bring in the harvest in a few weeks. The summer had been unusually warm and after so much sunshine these fields should be filled with thriving crops. Fields of wheat, barley and rape should be interspersed with vegetable crops, forming a patchwork of vibrant colour all the way to the horizon.

The only colours here were red, purple and black.

Malignant, putrid growths covered the land, like scabs over a septic wound. Nothing grew here, nothing could. The soil was swallowed up, covered by revolting fungoids and loathsome, fetid moulds. Tears were streaming down Maddy's face; Kalli had a tight grip on one arm while the Bann ineffectually patted the hand tucked into his arm.

"There, there, Ma'am. It's a terrible sight for a lady to have to endure, indeed, particularly one so young and in a delicate state." He produced a handkerchief, which Maddy took gratefully. "Perhaps we should move on."

"No," Maddy shook her head decisively. "No, thank you, but it's my duty to know what our poor people are suffering. Only then will we be equipped to fight for you in the Landsmeet."

Alistair silently applauded that one, as a murmur of approval spread out amongst those listening. It was time to open a wound, so that it could be salted a little later. He turned to the Revered Mother, hovering with a pair of Templars. "I assume you have done all that can be done with prayer, Your Reverence?"

The head of the Lothering Chantry bowed her head respectfully. Alistair wondered what had happened to the previous Revered Mother, and hoped that the darkspawn hadn't got her. "We have, Sire. Every day I pray for Andraste to assist us in our time of need, and every week we conduct a ceremony, here in the fields, asking for her grace and forgiveness."

_Oh, her forgiveness…, of course, it's_ our_ fault the land is blighted. What a silly King I am, for thinking it was the darkspawn._

"Perhaps you would be kind enough to conduct one for us today, Revered Mother?" Maddy's smile was misty but sufficiently sweet to raise a response in the middle-aged priestess. "If you will permit me, I would like very much to say a prayer as part of it."

"Of course, Ma'am, it would be a privilege." The Revered Mother beckoned to a couple of the lay sisters trailing in her wake and, at her orders, they set off back to the Chantry to procure one of the lightweight statues of Andraste they used in such circumstances.

While they waited, Alistair took the opportunity to pass amongst the delighted townsfolk, shaking hands, offering sympathy, making jokes. As he did, he checked on the positions of his group. Zev and Kalli had Maddy completely covered. Anders had planted himself too close to the Chantry group, and the Templars in particular, for their comfort; his intense aura of power would leave their senses shot to ribbons. Philippe was charming the Bann's wife and hopeful daughter. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, although he thought he had caught a brief glimpse of her earlier in the crowd. The King's Own were alert, but not tense; the advantage of having kept them in the dark. Everything seemed to be in order.

Maker, he'd be glad when this was _over._

_-oOo-_

It was taking all of Maddy's strength simply to keep her back straight and her head up. She wanted to break down, run from these revolting things, find the nearest tree and cry her heart out against its trunk. There were no plants or trees here to scream their pain to her; thankfully she couldn't feel the moulds and spores of the blight itself, the mere thought of doing so turned her stomach. No, there was nothing here to feel; it was like standing on a corpse, like standing with her feet in the exploded stomach of something long dead.

But the land was_ not_ dead; the soil could recover, _would_ recover of its own will, in time. It would take ten years or thereabouts, according to the lore; too long, for a country reliant on its agriculture.

The plaster statue of Andraste stood in the centre of the fields, rocking slightly on the uneven ground. The Revered Mother was leading her flock in a popular section of the Chant, the Canticle of Trials:

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me_

_I shall embrace the light, I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no-one can tear asunder._

Maddy opened her mind a fraction to the place of power. The soil there lay as acquiescent as here, all nutrients buried deep below a noxious crust. But the air and the sun were as fine as ever, and the stream she could hear in the near distance offered its goodness, also.

She could do this.

When the Canticle concluded and the Revered Mother turned to look expectantly at her Queen, Maddy smiled and moved away from the crowd. She took up a position alone, facing them all, the statue, the Chantry, the crowd. Alistair was at the front, trying to hide his anxiety. Philippe was beside him, utterly failing to hide his. She felt such love for both of them; it welled up and brought tears to her eyes. The stream was behind her; still a little distant, but now close enough. Kalli and Zev were spread out to either side of her, watchful and waiting.

"Blessed Andraste, hear our prayer." The Queen's voice carried, the wind was behind her, bringing her words to the crowd. "Wicked men, evil men, were twisted into the first Darkspawn, but good men, true men, defeat them in each and every Blight. Once again we have done so; in your Name, we have thrown back the foul horde. Yet now, the people go hungry because of the filth they left behind them, their evil polluting the land."

Maddy stepped a little further into what the Dalish had referred to as the _Setheneran _of the _Vhen'alas, _the Fade where the Land dreams. It would become harder to continue the prayer the further she went; she had practiced whenever possible on the several days' journey from South Reach, but nothing of this magnitude.

"We beg of you, in your goodness, to release us from this burden, to allow us the bounty of the land once more. We offer our assurance that we will follow your word in all things, and bring the Chant to the world."

No empty promise that; if this worked, then Andraste and the Maker would be taking all the credit. Maddy felt no guilt at all for her deception; she had been given a gift, it was time to use it for good instead of hiding it.

"Holy Andraste, we beg you to cleanse the land."

On cue, Alistair took up the line "Holy Andraste, we beg you to cleanse the land."

Those beside him followed, joining in on the next repetition. Two more repetitions and the crowd were all chanting, leaving Maddy free to step further into the _Setheneran._ With one foot in each world she made of herself a funnel through which the power of sun and air and water could flow, allowing it to pool at her feet. It seemed at first that the soil slept too deeply, she was forced to kneel, there in the field, placing her hands on the ground and forcing the power through the revolting muck. For one awful moment she felt the Blight spores as a malevolent presence around her, and then the land stirred, like a sick man being encouraged to sit up, with a glass held to his lips. The first few shaky sips were taken, and the filthy fungus clinging to her hands recoiled.

_-oOo-_

The chant started to falter at the sight of the Queen falling to her knees in the muck and filth. Then it began. It was a little like watching a piece of parchment burn from the centre; the mess of fungus and mould in which Maddy knelt shrivelled away, revealing good, rich soil. There was a tiny, shocked silence and then Leliana's trained voice cried out from the crowd, clear as a bell:

"A miracle! Continue the prayer! Aid the Queen in Andraste's work!"

"_Holy Andraste, we beg you to cleanse the land_." Alistair joined in with the rest, drawn in even though he knew what was happening. Seeing the effects of the Blight erased - a flood of healthy brown replacing the horrid reds and purples - made his spirit soar. It was as though he saw Ostagar renewed, or the Deep Roads cleansed. He'd walked in too many places filled with this corruption; the sight of it retreating in an ever-widening circle around his wife, seeing it shrivel to nothing, brought a blaze of exultation in its wake.

Many of the crowd were openly weeping, and it took Alistair a moment to realise that he was one of them. A hand gripped his shoulder tightly; he turned to see Philippe watching his sister with fierce pride, tears streaming down his face, also.

Alistair drew a hand across his eyes and tried to swallow his emotion; now was the danger time and he must be watchful. The Revered Mother and the Chantry sisters were all kneeling, praying. On the whole the Templars appeared stunned, one had tears in his eyes and only one was frowning, but his gaze was on Anders, as if suspecting that the mage had pulled some trickery. Anders himself stood at ease, his staff held loosely, and followed the prayer with the rest, making it as clear as possible that he could not be casting. He also was struggling to control his emotion, and Alistair recalled that Anders had walked in just as many dark places as he had himself.

After a time, the spread of healthy soil slowed and stopped, and Maddy began to get to her feet. Kalli and Zev immediately stepped in to help her and took up their usual positions, wary and watchful. She murmured to them, too far away for Alistair to hear and they nodded. She turned to the crowd, looking a little weary, and also a little cautious, scanning their reactions.

"Shall we cleanse the next field?" she asked them and was answered with a deafening roar and a surge forward. Alistair heard a snapped command and the King's Own formed up around him and Philippe.

"Make way for the King!" bellowed Captain Cedric, and the crowd gave him room to catch up with his wife.

_-oOo-_

Leliana moved unobtrusively through the crowd, a slouch hat hiding her bright hair. She allowed the song of the mob to wash over her, listening for the discordant voices, the ones out of tune with the rest of the chorus. When she heard one, one singing the refrain of '_it can't be a miracle'_ or '_Andraste wouldn't help people like us', _then she would drift in that direction, using her own persuasive voice to bring the singers back to the overall motif before moving off again.

When the crowd surged forward, following their Queen, she moved with them, still orchestrating their song.

_-oOo-_

"Magic, it _must_ be magic."

The harsh voice of the Templar behind him had about the same effect on Anders as a bugle on a warhorse. He turned, looking the Enemy up and down with his best infuriating smirk.

"Oh, really? Well, if_ you_ can feel the Fade being accessed, then you're a better _mage_ than I am, Ser Templar."

Ser Ferant, Leliana's latest convert, nodded soberly. "The Warden is absolutely correct. I can feel power being released, but the Fade is untouched. Surely it is holy power."

The deeply-bitten grooves between the eyes of the dissenting Templar deepened. "It _can't_ be."

Anders gifted the Chantry group with a wide grin. "Does anyone else find his lack of faith disturbing?"

"How _dare_ you, mage."

"That's 'how dare you, _Warden_', if you don't mind." Having this much fun surely couldn't be legal. Commander Leonie would have been pulling him away by his ponytail already. Who would have thought Court Mage would be such a hoot?

"Enough." The Revered Mother glared at the mage and the Templar impartially. "I will not see this historic moment - for both country_ and_ Chantry - ruined by your childishness. Come, we must hurry if we wish to stay with, and support, the Queen."

_Spoilsport_.

_-oOo-_


	35. Chapter 35

_-oOo-_

"The Queen is resting. You may see Lady Leliana, who is taking messages for her."

Yet another farm-holder shuffled into the King's camp, and was escorted into a tent where Leliana had set up a table and chairs. People were coming from miles around to beg the Queen's assistance with their fields.

Maddy had managed to heal a fair chunk of the fields and farms immediately surrounding Lothering before Alistair put his foot down and demanded that she stop. The spreading rumour of the Queen's delicate condition suppressed any rumblings of discontent from those locals whose land had not been reached, but they then followed the King's party back to camp, petitioning for assistance. By nightfall the first farm-holders from beyond Lothering began to arrive; during the evening a steady trickle continued to turn up, twisting their caps and shuffling their feet, asking if it was true that Her Majesty could perform a miracle and restore their fields.

Eventually Alistair stepped in, ordering the camp closed for the night so that Leliana could eat and rest.

After dinner, Leliana went through her notes for all who gathered in the Royal Pavilion. "There is Blighted land in every direction from here. The darkspawn moved up from Ostagar to both Redcliffe and Denerim, so they cut a swathe in both directions." She sipped her wine, looking weary. "All the current petitions are quite local, but as word spreads across the Bannorn, we will be inundated."

Alistair had a very tired Maddy curled on his knee, half asleep. He clumsily manhandled his map one-handed. "The more of the Banns we can please, the more of the Landsmeet we will hold, but we can't be everywhere at once, and I won't have Maddy exhausting herself."

Philippe shrugged, undisturbed. "You must remember, _mon ami_, that this is the harvest-time. Some fields will soon be laid to winter crops, but not all. Provided we can put the land in good heart for the spring planting, then the lords will be pleased, ___n'est__-ce ____pas__? _We have all winter to achieve this."

"If we wait all winter, there won't be any mages_ left_, not at the rate that madwoman is going." Anders tickled a purring Pounce under his chin, but his face was troubled. "I'm not going to be at ease until I know what's happening at the Circle Tower."

"Agreed; that means we have to stick to the schedule and continue on to Redcliffe. Any farm-holds that lie on our route will be the lucky ones." Alistair glanced over at Leliana and she nodded, checking through her list. "After we ascertain the situation in the Circle, we must make our way up to Orzammar as quickly as possible, or we'll still be in the Frostbacks when winter comes. Been there, done that; don't want to do it again."

"Oh, such discomforts we will endure in these shabby accommodations." Zevran's gentle mockery drew an answering giggle from Leliana. "However, far be it from me to dissent, _amico mio_. Your country is too cold even in the flatlands; your mountains are simply barbarous."

"I'll remind you of that after a week in Orzammar, when you can't wait to be back in them." Alistair grinned at Zevran's horrified shudder, but it quickly faded. "Actually, I'll probably be running out the doors ahead of you."

"I'll race you." Anders' grim expression matched Alistair's.

Philippe looked between them, bewildered. "May I ask what is so terrible about Orzammar? I understood it to be an architectural marvel."

"Oh, it is. Don't worry, _you'll_ probably be fine." Alistair adjusted the weight of his drowsing burden. "Wardens… well, we don't sleep very well in Orzammar. The darkspawn are in tunnels under and around the city, and we can feel them, all the time."

"You are not a Warden, _mon cher_," Philippe turned his gaze to Zevran, "why did you shudder so?"

"Orzammar is the only place in Thedas where I truly remember I'm an elf. All that rock… if you discover I'm missing after a couple of days, you'll find me with the Dalish, clinging to a tree." Zevran noticed Kalli's horrified face and winked at her with a wicked grin, making her roll her eyes in disgust. "Or, back in Denerim, clinging to a whore."

_-oOo-_

The remains of breakfast were scattered on the table and the ink was drying on his pen. Alistair frowned down at a blank sheet of paper and wondered how he could possibly explain to Eamon what had happened. His letter needed to reach Denerim ahead of the rumours, and he still hadn't made his mind up whether to come clean or to feed his Chancellor the same line of bullshit they were feeding the nation.

The latter possibility made him squirm guiltily, but the problem wasn't Eamon, it was Isolde. Alistair had no surety that Eamon would keep the truth from his highly religious wife. However, the truth shouldn't really be risked in a letter anyway; if it was intercepted… With this in mind, he dipped the nib in fresh ink and wrote:

_Eamon_

_You will be hearing some very strange rumours, before too long. Maker knows how garbled they will be before they reach you. The entire story is too long to recount here but this, at least, is truth: during a religious ceremony in Lothering, Maddy was able to heal Blighted land, returning it to a fertile state. Following the incident, she appears still able to do so. The populace of Lothering declared this a gift from Andraste and farm-holders from miles around are coming to ask for assistance._

_I don't need to explain to you what this could mean in political terms. Once the news spreads across the Bannorn, both you and I can expect to be inundated with requests. Please make sure that the nobility are aware that I will not allow these demands to threaten the succession. Maddy's safety, and that of our unborn children, is paramount. Provided that is understood, we will be doing our best to return as much land as possible to a fertile state before the spring planting._

_From Lothering we will be going on to Redcliffe to stay with Teagan, and from there up to Orzammar, before the weather gets too cold. After our visit with King Bhelen, we will continue with the schedule, moving east along the northern coast. Anyone whose land lies on our path may be assured of our attentions, provided Maddy is well enough. I hope to restore West Hill, as a bare minimum, as it is currently virtually uninhabitable._

_Keep me well-informed of public opinion on this matter, as my own information is limited to local news. _

_Alistair_

He was sanding the letter when a discreet cough outside was followed by Captain Cedric lifting the tent flap. "May I speak with you, Your Majesty?"

"Of course, come in, Ced." Alistair folded the letter and melted some sealing wax. "What do you need?"

The Captain of the King's Own entered the tent, and took up a stance before the table which the King was using as a desk. His expression was unusually wooden and his demeanour an object lesson in military correctness.

_Uh oh_. Alistair fumbled a little with the royal seal, so that the imprint in the sealing wax was a touch sloppy. This was a man who had always treated Alistair as a man. Today he was treating him as a King, and it did not bode well at all.

Once he had finished, he looked up. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"I regret to inform you that I can no longer serve you, sire." Cedric's voice was as wooden as his expression. "I must ask you to accept my resignation."

Alistair folded his hands on the table before him, frowning at his Guard Captain. "May I ask why?"

Cedric's eyes dropped from the canvas wall opposite to meet those of his King. "Permission to speak freely, sire?"

"Don't we always?"

"Well, no, sire. I mean, we used to, but not anymore. That's the problem, isn't it?"

The King's eyes were fixed on him. "Is it?"

The anger that Cedric had been hiding behind a strict military front was flaring in his eyes. "I'm not entirely stupid, sire. You and the Queen and all your advisors have been like a cat on hot bricks for days and then yesterday…" He shook his head disbelievingly. "Yesterday weren't no miracle, sire. I know a military campaign when I see one; I don't know whether what happened yesterday was what you were expecting, but you were expecting _something_. Every one of you knew where you was meant to be and what you were meant to be doing."

Cedric's anger spilled over in the face of the wary expression in the hazel eyes opposite him. He slammed a fist down on the table before him, making the scattered breakfast platters jump. "You all walked into the unknown, yesterday, didn't you? Deliberately walked into danger, while me and my men knew _nothing_." He made an obvious effort to regain control over his temper, pulling the rags of his pride and his rigid bearing back around him. "I told you in the Brecilian Forest I couldn't do my job like this, sire. It's truer now than it was then. I won't take your money if I can't do my job."

"Cedric." The Queen's soft voice made them both jump, tense as they were. Maddy moved from the enclosed sleeping area, into the main tent. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. Cedric, I'm sorry this has happened. It's all my fault. But I promise you; there will be no further need to keep anything from you."

She glanced at Alistair and he nodded. "She's right, Ced. Any danger we walk into from here on; if we know, then you shall, too."

Cedric subjected both of them to a steady regard, his lips tightly pressed together. "Do I have your word on that, Your Majesties?"

Alistair stood, moving around the table to stand before his Captain. "Absolutely. You won't be privy to every political decision I make. Maker, you never were and never wanted to be, right? But if our actions are going to affect safety, then you'll know about it. You have my word."

Some of the tension went out of the man and he nodded. "Very well, I withdraw my offer of resignation." He rubbed his hands over his face wearily. "In that case, Alistair, we need to discuss security, given how many farmers and minor lords and suchlike keep trogging through the camp."

Maddy smiled. "I'm glad you're staying with us, Cedric. Take a seat and I'll get someone to bring us some tea."

_-oOo-_

Walking into the Lothering Chantry always felt like coming home to Leliana. There had been some rebuilding and repainting, a few alterations, but the smell and the _feel_ of the place remained the same. She passed the familiar benches and the statue of Andraste, now showing some new chips and scratches. The Sisters and Templars she passed acknowledged her, not as a Sister, but as a Lady of the Court. There was a touch of melancholy for her in that, but it was pointless to hanker after the past.

"Good morning, Your Reverence. I hope you are well."

"Lady Leliana." The Revered Mother nodded to her respectfully. "How is the Queen?"

"She was very weary last night, but is much recovered now." Guileless blue eyes met those of the priestess before her. "I have incredible news, Your Reverence. Andraste's blessing has remained with Her Majesty. Queen Madeleina will be able to continue to heal Ferelden from the ravages of the Blight. Isn't that wonderful?"

The Revered Mother appeared a little taken aback. "Indeed. It hadn't even occurred to me that…" The little twist of envy that crossed her face would have been imperceptible to most, but to the trained bard it may as well have been written in ink. "Of course, this is marvellous news for the farmers, they will be thrilled."

"We are all thrilled, Your Reverence." Leliana allowed only the merest hint of reproach in her voice. "Perhaps you are not aware, but we have had to import grain from Orlais this season in order to ensure that the people don't starve. King Alistair has been gravely worried at the prospect of having to do so for as much as ten years. He would never leave his people to go hungry, but it would have put an enormous strain on the Treasury."

The priestess nodded gravely. "I see, I didn't realise things were quite so bad. It's been terrible here in Lothering certainly, but I thought the rest of the country was prospering."

Subtle changes of timbre and tone drew the Revered Mother in further. "Much of the Bannorn was affected as the Darkspawn horde marched on Denerim. West Hill suffered greatly, far worse than Lothering. Amaranthine was badly hit after the end of the Blight. Andraste has offered this gift to us in our time of greatest need; rest assured that the Queen will do everything she can to live up to the honour bestowed upon her." Leliana grinned impishly, her work done, now able to seal the deal. "Although I'm sure that King Alistair will be doing his best to hold her back. He worries about her health and that of the heirs she carries."

"It's true then? Queen Madeleina is increasing?" At Leliana's nod, the priestess beamed. "Heirs, you say? She's carrying more than one? Is that certain?"

"Warden Anders seems certain, and none can match him for healing. If he is sensing two babies, then I know of no-one who would gainsay him." Leliana felt that she had given the Revered Mother enough to digest and, no doubt, to pass on to the Grand Cleric in her report. She was satisfied that no breath of the word 'magic' would be crossing the Revered Mother's mind anytime soon. "I came only to bring you the good news, Your Reverence. If you'll excuse me, I need to return. The Queen's schedule is full; we have only today and tomorrow available, before we need to move on to Redcliffe."

"Of course, my lady. Please pass on my best wishes and congratulations to the Queen."

_-oOo-_

As the official representative of the mages, it was Dagna who had received the summons to see Vartag Gavorn. Even though they had now been in Orzammar for several weeks, being housed in the Diamond quarter still made her jittery, and entering the Royal Palace had given her cold, sweaty palms. After their unannounced arrival, Bhelen had housed the mages in comfortable guest quarters in the largely unused Aeducan estate; this, in itself, made Dagna nervous, as the King was well known to do _nothing_ out of charity.

After meeting Vartag, Dagna returned to the Aeducan estate in a thoughtful mood. In the large living room, mages sprawled on sofas or hunched over tables, engaged in their normal pursuits; reading, writing, napping… aaand that was just about the full list. Dagna had to admit, Vartag had a pretty good point.

"Er, excuse me. Can I have a talk with all of you?"

Rumpled heads arose from sofa cushions or out of books.

Dagna beamed at them all, trying not to make them nervous. With all the upsets at the Circle and then moving to a strange city, they were very prone to nervousness. "I've just come from a meeting with Vartag Gavorn, Prince Bhelen's advisor. He wants to know what you intend to do with yourselves."

"Do?" Despite Dagna's heartening beam, Kinnon still looked pretty edgy. "You mean they want us to leave?"

Dagna hastened to reassure him. "No, don't worry. No-one's asked us to leave." Six mages relaxed slightly. "Not yet anyway. That's kind of the point, you see. They want to know what you're going to _do_. How you're going to use your skills to aid Orzammar."

This was the nice way of putting it. What Vartag had actually said, his cold, black eyes fixed on Dagna, was that the mages were being housed, and fed, and it was time they earned their keep.

Unfortunately, at this time, no-one appeared to feel they had any skills to offer. They looked at each other, or at their books, or at Dagna. They wore matching expressions; willing, but puzzled. In the end, Petra, the most outgoing and confident of them all, asked the question they must all be thinking. "What do they _want_ us to do? Most of us can teach, but they don't have any mages. I've found the books in the Shaper's library fascinating, but I don't suppose they want us to lecture on magic to the Shaper's assistants, do they?"

Dagna sighed. The problem was that, although fairly confident in their own environment, Orzammar had knocked the stuffing out of the mages. They were simply not used to freedom, and had no idea what to do with it. "I suspect they were thinking more about the spells you can cast."

That got their attention. No-one ever wanted mages to cast spells. Casting spells… well, it was a necessary evil; one cast spells in order to teach others how to cast spells - ones that no-one actually wanted used. Kinnon's nerves appeared to have been overrun with excitement. "They want us to… _really_? Like… um… what, for example." His fingers twitched involuntarily. "I'm good at telekinesis but," he looked crestfallen, "there's not much call for it, of course."

Dagna couldn't help herself. She giggled, and snorted, and finally laughed out loud. At Kinnon's affronted look, she waved her hands apologetically, trying to get her emotions under control. "Sorry… I," she gasped and took a deep breath. "This is Orzammar; remember? We're the frontline against the Darkspawn. If you can hurt monsters or heal people, then the patrols will think you're a sodding hero. I've read about telekinesis in combat; you can stun a group of darkspawn, a force field keeps someone alive until the enemies are dead, the spell you cast on weapons cuts through armour_ and_, if you are expert in it, you can stop darkspawn mages." The giggles came back, "And you say that there's not much call for it."

"Fight? They want us to _fight_?" Senior Enchanter Torrin looked horrified, but some of the younger mages were giving each other sidelong glances and a few sparks were forming on fingertips…

_-oOo-_

Alistair carried Maddy back to camp as afternoon turned to evening, the thanks and prayers of the farmers and villagers still ringing in their ears. She couldn't possibly keep up this kind of pace; Anders was already warning them of the risks of over-exertion, but the initial impact had now been made. Lothering was convinced that they had received a miracle and word was spreading rapidly; Leliana had seen to that.

Maddy rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying the sense of being held safe. _Safe_. The knowledge of it sank through her body, making her feel light and free and young for the first time in months. She wriggled in her husband's arms as he carried her into camp and, as he bent his head to brush his cheek against her hair, she turned her face up and murmured to him. Alistair's answering grin lit up her world and he turned his steps to their tent.

"We don't want to be disturbed," he told the guards as they held back the tent flap.

"As you wish, sire."

The tent flap closed behind them, shutting out the bustle of the camp and leaving them in the dim, filtered light of the late afternoon sun falling through canvas. The instant they were inside, Maddy's fingers were working on doublet fastenings.

"In a hurry, dear?" Alistair allowed his wife to slip gently to her feet, fingers still busy on silk buttons. She grinned impishly up at him and his face lit up in return. "I haven't seen that expression in weeks." An affectionate finger slid softly over her cheek. "Maker, it's good to have you back, Maddy."

She finished with his buttons and slid her hands inside his doublet, relishing warm skin through fine silk shirt. "It's been a _horrible_ time, and you have been the _best_," she kissed his chest through the silk, leaving a wet patch, "strongest," a nip at his nipple made him catch his breath, "most _wonderful_," she pulled the hem of the shirt out and sucked directly on his tight abdomen, "husband I _ever_ had." A squeal escaped her as he tickled her ribs in response to the final part of the sentence.

The ensuing childish romp left them breathless and half-dressed, falling onto the bed in a fit of giggles. Tickles and laughter turned to kisses and murmured endearments and finally to gasps and sighs, as the light slanted lower across the canvas.

_-oOo-_


	36. Chapter 36

_-oOo-_

Coming to Redcliffe always felt strange. He could never get over how small the village was, and even the castle seemed shrunken, but it was the people who made it most odd. There were men and woman in the village and the castle who, as a child, he had sneaked off with to go fishing, or fought with when they called him Eamon's bastard. There were older ones, too; those who had cuffed him for being cheeky, or sneaked him food when he was in disgrace.

Now they turned out en-masse to greet their King and Queen, and bowed deeply or curtseyed to the floor as Alistair passed by. He'd grown accustomed to it over the last couple of years, but here in Redcliffe it seemed _wrong_ and probably always would.

Teagan at least was his usual self; polite, pleasant, and well-equipped by his birth and breeding to be at ease in any company. His greeting in the courtyard was as formal as that of any Arl, but once everyone was settled into their rooms, and he could speak to the royal couple alone in his sitting room, the formalities were dropped.

"Alistair, it's good to see you. Madeleina, you look radiant; I heard the news. May I offer my heartiest congratulations? Eamon is beside himself with joy, I imagine." Teagan shook hands with Alistair and kissed Maddy's cheek before taking his seat.

"The _other_ news that reached me ahead of you is rather startling." He indicated a sheaf of letters on the table. "The Banns have assumed that, given Eamon's position, I know something of this supposed miracle, and have bombarded me with requests for information. Is it indeed true that blighted land has been restored?"

Alistair confirmed it and Teagan shook his head, dumbfounded. "I confess I thought it a tall tale spun by farmers, but I should have known better. It's not the first time we've seen Andraste's blessing conferred, after all." His gaze went to the mantel, where a tiny leather pouch in a glass case stood in pride of place.

"If you have blighted fields on our route, Teagan, I'd be happy to assist." Maddy cast a mischievous glance at Alistair. "Provided I'm allowed."

"Just so long you don't push yourself as hard as you did in Lothering, my dear." Alistair was bound and determined that she was _not_ going to work herself to death over this.

"One or two of my Banns will be delighted to hear that, dear lady, but in truth we are not so agricultural in this part of the country as in the heart of the Bannorn. The majority of our trade is from lake-fishing; in view of the expected problems with food this year, all the villages on Lake Calenhad are working hard to smoke as much fish as possible. We also use the rivers pouring out of the lake to drive watermills, and grind grain brought in from our neighbours. This industry will ultimately benefit from what you have achieved already, and the millers will be most grateful." Teagan smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Arl Wulff, on the other hand, will no doubt be thanking Andraste on his knees for this boon. Both his own lands and those of his Banns in the heartlands are badly affected."

Alistair nodded. "We'll be going there once we leave Orzammar. Our hope is to assist West Hill, but the heartlands aren't on our route. It'll be all we can achieve to help West Hill and Amaranthine before spring planting."

"I can understand that, as those are the worst affected, but I can imagine the squeals of outrage from the Bannorn already."

Alistair changed the subject; the whole matter of the Bannorn, and the votes he could or could not garner this year, had been giving him a headache for weeks. "Teagan, have you heard anything from the Circle? With Connor living there, I was hoping you may have news."

A crease appeared between the Arl's eyebrows. "Very little, I'm afraid. There are rumours that the First Enchanter is ill, but those remain unconfirmed. I haven't had a letter from Connor for," Teagan stopped to tick off the time on his fingers, "four or five months, I think. It was before I went to Denerim for your wedding." He fiddled with the stem of his goblet, frowning. "I've asked our Revered Mother whether everything is alright there; she says that those Templars passing through the village on their way from and to the Circle Tower haven't reported anything, and that young people do forget to write. She thinks I'm making too much of it."

"You haven't been up there to see Connor, then? I was hoping for a first-hand report."

"I'm afraid not." Teagan studied the King's face. "What's all this about, Alistair? Is there a problem with the mages?"

"You've heard what happened in Denerim?" Alistair enquired, and Teagan nodded in response.

"Yes, I got a letter from Eamon. It makes me thankful that my nephew is safely locked in the Circle, to be honest. I shudder to think what would have happened if he had manifested magic now, although I believe that children are still being taken to the Circle, not to Denerim. The Revered Mother has seen a few travelling under escort."

"If she didn't see anything to worry her, then I suspect they were the lucky ones." Alistair drummed his fingers on his chair arm, wondering how much to tell Teagan. He was a good man, Eamon's brother, and not given to idle chatter. Also, if any action had to be taken against the Circle Tower, then Redcliffe would be their best base of operations. "You might want to get yourself a fresh drink, Teagan. I have a tale for you that will make your hair curl."

_-oOo-_

"A letter for you, _mon frère_." Maddy entered her brother's room with a sheaf of post in her hands. "It got mixed up with ours, probably because of the Imperial seal on it." Laughing at Philippe's expression of distaste, she turned to leave the room.

"Stay, ___ma chérie_, it may be news about the attempt on your life." He broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of heavy parchment. He scanned down the page, his face growing unusually hard.

"Is there a problem, Philippe?"

He looked up and the expression vanished, replaced with the gentle irony she was more accustomed to seeing. "Dearest Celene seems to feel that I have spent sufficient time in Ferelden and desires me to return to Ghislain immediately." Amusement gleamed in his eyes. "For some strange reason she believes that my excellent estate manager is incapable of running things without my supervision."

"_C'est des conneries_! Frederique has been running the place since you and I were children." Maddy frowned direfully. "She wants to separate us."

"Undoubtedly, my dear, but it's unlikely to be malicious. Celene is too coldly political to serve us such a trick. No, she merely intends to remind me where my loyalties should lie." Philippe hesitated, before continuing, "There is something else, though…"

"Oh?" Maddy scanned her brother's face anxiously. "It's bad news? Tell me, quick."

He turned away, walking to the window, the letter clenched in his hand. His voice was light, unconcerned. It didn't fool her in the slightest. "She informs me that, with you safely married, it is time that I too begat an heir. She asks me if I have a suitable Orlesian lady in mind, as otherwise she will find me a wife from among the minor royalty of Antiva or Rivain."

"Oh, Philippe…" Maddy knew he'd been dreading this for years; in truth, they both had, but she had proved exceptionally lucky in the man she'd been offered. There could be no such good fortune for her brother. "I'm so sorry, _mon chéri_. When must you leave?"

He turned to her, smiling mask firmly in place. "My love, I have no intention of returning, at least until I see my nieces or nephews born. I shall write to Celene and inform her of this. She can hardly protest, under the circumstances."

Maddy had no such certainty; the Empress was not accustomed to being crossed, even in minor ways. She kept her reservations to herself, knowing that Philippe was just as aware of them as she was, and hugged him tightly. "I'm glad you're staying, at least for a while. While you're here, I feel I have all my family intact."

He returned her embrace and kissed her cheek. "For you, _ma soeur_, I shall endure the mud a little longer."

_-oOo-_

Alistair found the news in one of his letters just as interesting, and not quite so unwelcome. Before he'd even got the end of the page he had his head out of the door, asking one of the guards to send Anders up to see him.

By the time the mage arrived, he'd finished Bhelen's letter and was ready to hand it over. "Read this."

"Andraste's flaming knickers!" The exclamation told Alistair that Anders had reached the part where he'd paused. He waited patiently until the mage finished reading. When Anders looked up, his face was unusually sombre. "Six Harrowed mages fleeing to Orzammar? It's unheard of. What in all the dark corners of the Fade is happening at the Circle?" He did a quick reread. "What's this King Bhelen like? Are they safe there?"

"Relatively." Alistair took back his letter and frowned over it. "They may get looked down on for being surface-dwellers, but their magic won't matter to the dwarves. What worries me is what Bhelen is up to. His abilities as a politician are incredible; he can run circles around me. I _need _the lyrium trade if I want to play politics against the Chantry. He now knows that the Chantry and the Circle are causing me problems… it's bound to weaken my negotiation."

"Can we get them moved elsewhere?"

"Where?" Alistair had been feeling for months that he was failing to protect a portion of his subjects, and his frustration with the situation was beginning to show. "I'm the Maker-damned King and I don't have _anywhere _I can keep mages safe from the Grand Cleric's madness." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "It's a ridiculous situation, and I _really_ wish I had better control of it, but if I dive in feet first now, I'll only make things worse. No, they're safe from the Chantry there, at least. If I moved them, and they ended up in her clutches as a result, I'd never forgive myself."

Anders' frustration was starting to get the better of him, too. "Alistair, we _need _to go to the Circle, find out what's happening."

"Do you think I don't know that? Maker, I wish Orzammar was on-route to the Circle. It would help to hear the mages' story first before we blunder in." The King thought for a moment. "I need to spend a couple of days here; Teagan has some of the Banns arriving today to spend time with me, after that we'll make the trip up to the Circle. But I'm leaving Maddy here; I don't want her anywhere near the new Knight Commander or his fanatical Templars."

_-oOo-_

Whilst superficially as polite and urbane as ever, Philippe was in a foul mood. Had it not been their first night at Redcliffe, and had Arl Teagan not arranged music and dancing for his guests, he would have stayed in his room. As it was, he felt honour-bound to support his sister, remaining at her side and bowing over the hands of country lords and having their simpering daughters pushed in his face. He cursed his rank and title; here, even more than in Orlais it seemed, he was a prize to be fought over. Well, they were to be disappointed. Celene apparently had no intention of selling her prize pig to anyone less than royalty. She'd disregarded him for so long, he'd begun to hope… but it seemed she had merely been saving him until last.

While the Orlesian Prince bowed and smiled and murmured compliments, bitterness and resentment swarmed in his stomach like a wasp's nest. The onset of the music and dancing brought no respite. Various sweet young hopefuls hovered, each hoping to snag the accolade of the first dance with royalty. Every stop on the itinerary it had been the same and Philippe was weary beyond measure of pretending.

It was poor Teagan who, all unsuspecting, brought the wasp's nest boiling up and flying free.

"Won't you dance, Your Highness?" Arl Teagan was on his way to the floor with Leliana on his arm. The bard's cautious expression suggested that she, who knew Philippe a little better by this time, had a suspicion all was not well. "If you don't have a partner, I'm sure any number of young ladies would be delighted to oblige."

Philippe stared at his host, urbane wit and charm deserting him. _Sacré Coeur d'Andraste_, that was the problem, wasn't it? They were all willing to oblige, just as the ones Celene would approach would be willing. The idea turned his stomach, the mere notion of submitting some poor woman to such a life for the sake of a title. Not to mention his own potential misery.

Leliana jumped in, trying to save the situation, but it was too late. The wasps were on the move. "My lord, I don't think that Prince Phili-

"You're absolutely right, Seigneur Teagan, I should like to dance." Philippe cut across Leliana's words as rebellion soared. He would regret this later, no doubt, but tonight he would dance. "Do not concern yourself with me, I shall find a partner of my own." He bowed correctly to them and turned on his heel, scanning the room.

There, by the door.

_-oOo-_

Zevran was well aware of the position in the room of his Prince, just as he was aware of every other person, notable or otherwise. The vantage he had chosen gave him a clear view of the entire room; Kallian stood behind Maddy, all was well there, leaving him free to scan for trouble. Being accosted by an occasional noble - mistaking him for a servant, despite his fine clothes, and trying to send him for drinks - was a nuisance, but this was nothing new and was easily dealt with. There was usually a kindly person nearby willing to prevent a scene by whispering the correct words in the ear of the thirsty one. There was a time when the warning would have been _Antivan_ _Crow _or _Blight Companion_. Now he heard the sibilant hiss of _King's Assassin_. That was somewhat amusing, and did his reputation no harm. The rumour was creating a clear space around him however, which was less amusing. Being able to see was one thing, being seen was quite another.

So, when Philippe swiftly crossed the room and bowed before him, it seemed likely that the entire room observed it.

"Signore Arainai, I beg that you will do me the honour of granting me this dance." This was no polite murmur, the words rang out loud and clear. Flags of colour were flying in his _principe's_ face; someone must have severely upset him to cause such loss of composure.

Zevran stared at him, torn between concern and amusement. In Orlais or Antiva, two men dancing together would be nothing particularly out of the ordinary. In Ferelden, one was expected to be discreet with such proclivities. So, seeing it that way, why _shouldn't_ an Orlesian and an Antivan dance?

His lips twitched. _So we shall shock these staid Fereldens, eh?_ _Buono_. "_Mio principe_, the honour would be mine, but I do not know the lady's steps."

Unholy glee bloomed in Philippe's blue eyes, chasing away the shadows. "That is of no matter, _mon amour_. I am proficient in them." Therefore it was Zevran who held out his arm and Philippe who laid his hand atop that of the elf. The drawing in of shocked breaths surrounded them. Really, Zev couldn't remember the last time he'd had such fun. He led his prince into the line that was forming.

_-oOo-_

"Maker's Breath, _what_ is your brother doing?"

Maddy was already watching the display, her shoulders shaking. "He appears to be dancing, _mon mari_."

"With _Zev_?"

She choked slightly at the horror in Alistair's voice, stifling a giggle. "So it seems." She observed them for a moment. "They dance very well, don't you think?"

They did indeed make a very graceful pair, showing a mastery of the intricate steps which was quite charming. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, this dance was not one which required a changing of partners, so no staid Ferelden gentlemen were forced to suffer the indignity of being faced with Philippe as his lady. Three down from them in the line Teagan was moving from shock to amusement in the face of Leliana's obvious approval.

"Smile, dear, it would not do for people to think you disapprove of your brother-in-law."

At Maddy's mild admonishment, Alistair straightened his face, bestowing a benign smile upon the dancing. The banns and lords couldn't know that there was a suggestion of gritted teeth behind the smile, and this sign of the King's acceptance caused an unexpected side-effect: after a short hesitation, one of the minor lords bravely took the bit between his teeth and led the man he'd been conversing with into the dance. There was another ripple of horror across the room, but this time there were a few twitching lips and an outbreak of coughing as the younger people tried to hide their amusement.

Maddy beamed upon the new dancers. "You see, _mon mari_? We will set a new fashion and Ferelden shall become quite cosmopolitan."

"Ye-es."

_-oOo-_

When the set ended, Zevran swiftly escorted his dance partner from the hall, deftly avoiding all those who wished to accost them.

"Zevran, what are you-?"

"Hush."

An unoccupied sitting-room being the first suitable space they encountered, he bundled Philippe through the door and locked it behind them. Philippe looked better; the dancing had driven away the shadows from his face, but the assassin was not deceived. Something dire must have occurred to cause such a reserved man to make such a spectacle.

Zevran leant against the door, Philippe's wrist still caught in his fingers. "Which is it to be, _caro mio_? Do you wish to tell me what has upset you, or shall I ravish you until you forget all about it?"

Minute movements of the elegant frame before him suggested the latter, but his prince shook his head, a sad smile on his handsome face. "I owe you an apology, _mon cher._ I have made you an offer that I shall not be at liberty to fulfil."

"Oh? Tell me."

Instead, Philippe reached inside his close-fitting doublet and withdrew a piece of parchment. Zevran released him to take it, and swiftly scanned over the few lines of ink. After a moment, he refolded it and handed it back. "So reality has intruded upon you. There is no need for this tragic face." Zevran lifted his hand, brushing down the smooth cheek to the clenched jaw. "I know not of Rivain, but a royal bride from Antiva will not be concerned with your preferences. Provided you get her with child, then the rest of your life will be your own. She will expect nothing more from you."

The pained choke from Philippe might have been laughter. "You make it sound so simple."

"You have no taste at all for women? There are ways to make it easier on you, to make the differences less intrusive. I know of these and can instruct you."

Philippe blinked fast and turned away, hiding the gleam of tears. "Zevran, I-" There was a moment's silence as he fought with himself. "You know what I want."

"You hoped to live in a romantic dream? My Prince, it does not exist." He wanted to reach out, to soothe the hurt which was so visible in the man's tight shoulders and back. But reality must be faced. "Philippe," this made his prince turn; never once had Zevran called him by name, "your dream is not possible. I am the son of a Dalish whore and you are an Imperial Prince. A liaison between us would be tolerated, but nothing more than that. Not… that thing you said."

Although Philippe's face was still drawn, a smile dawned. He took a step forward and smoothed back a strand of blond hair. "The 'thing I said' was marriage, Zevran. I want you and only you. Is it so terrifying that you can't even say it?"

"It is foolish, unnecessary and impossible. Marry a princess, make an heir, it need affect nothing." Only a whisper of space separated them, Zev leaned forward, tipping his head up, allowed his voice to drop to a murmur. "Why do you deny yourself? Take pleasure where you can." For a moment he believed he'd won, thought that Philippe would give in to the desire raging in both of them. He could feel the heat of his prince's body, the warmth of his breath. Blue eyes gazed into amber and the assassin trembled, waiting for the kiss that seemed inevitable.

The moment passed. Philippe's eyes closed tight, anguished, and his forehead dropped to touch the top of Zevran's head. "I can't. If I were commoner or you were noble. Perhaps then I could. We'd be lovers then, a compromise, but not an impossible one. As things stand you'd be seen as my toy, my whore. I won't do that to you."

"You think I care? You think I would mind?"

A brush of lips on his forehead and Philippe withdrew, his composure falling back into place. "I care. I shouldn't have danced with you; it will have given the wrong impression. I shall have to rectify that."

Zevran swore long and fluently, reverting to his native Antivan to relieve his feelings. "You seek to protect my reputation?" Frustration was beginning to turn to anger. "Do you know what reputation I own out there, _mio principe_?" He stabbed a finger towards the main hall, for once allowing his fury free rein. How _dare_ this man think he was defined by something as trivial as sex? "King's assassin, hired killer. I could sleep with half the Ferelden nobility and that would remain unchanged. You could bend me over the high table and fuck me in front of them all and the only reputation affected would be yours. I'd still be the vicious killer, the Crow. They would still fear me."

Philippe simply stood, allowing the storm to wash over him. When Zevran paused for breath, his protest was mild. "That isn't how_ I_ see you, _mon cher_. Would you have me treat you badly, merely because of your profession? Should I show you no respect, because others offer you only fear?"

With these words it finally slotted together in Zevran's head and his anger drained away. Respect. To Zevran respect and fear were inextricably tied together; a Crow was respected because he was feared. For Philippe respect meant something entirely different. It was a gift he offered to someone he believed deserved it. It was a gift that was being offered to him. He had repeatedly attempted to trample on it, and this incredible, impossible man continued to offer it.

It took Zev's breath away.

He needed to think.

"I apologise,_ mio principe_. I think I understand." His hand was on the doorknob, he had to get away. "I must go; I shall see you later, perhaps."

Zevran fled, melting into the shadows of the dimly lit corridors, leaving Philippe where he stood.

_-oOo-_


	37. Chapter 37

_-oOo-_

Anders sauntered through Redcliffe village enjoying, as always, the freedom to do so unmolested. The fact that the local Chantry was _right there_, with Templars outside it, merely sweetened the deal. His errand made it more delicious still, albeit a shade trickier. Should anyone take a very close look at him, they would find that his casual manner - that of a man just out for a gentle breath of air – contrasted with the sharp gaze that flickered to every bush and tree. Occasionally he changed direction, in a meandering kind of way, as though completely on impulse. If the hypothetical onlooker was almost inhumanly observant then they may notice that near each turn he took was a bush or tree that had a rag snagged in its branches, or a splash of paint, or some other apparently random distinguishing feature.

His ambling eventually led him to a group of houses, built onto the dock in Redcliffe's signature manner. The strange triple clomp of two feet and a staff on the wooden decking caused the balding man crouched down and carefully painting his house-front to look up frowning. The sight of a man in the robes of a mage, carrying a staff that crawled with power, brought a deep scowl to his face.

"Nice day." Anders' mild greeting brought no diminution of the scowl.

"I daresay." He carefully put down his brush and straightened, rubbing his back. "What would you be doin' in Redcliffe, master mage, if'n I might ask?"

"Oh, you know, taking the air. The castle's nice enough, but gets a bit stuffy. I like to remind myself that I'm free to breathe."

"Up at the castle, eh?" The scowl vanished, replaced with a respectful servility that was, in its way, no less repellent. "Would you be in service to the King then, mebbe?"

"Actually I'm a Warden, but yes, I'm travelling with the King at the moment." Anders pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Although the leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn, the weather was still very warm. "Could I trouble you for a cup of water? It's a long trek back up to the castle."

"A Warden? Certainly, certainly." The front door was thrown open with some ceremony. If the man had still owned a forelock, it would undoubtedly have been tugged. "Come in, Ser Warden, come in. Mind the paint, it's still wet."

With the door shut behind them, the servile manners and rough accent fell away. "You're Anders?" At an affirmative nod, the man let out a puff of relieved breath. "Holy Maker, man, you scared me; walking along in full regalia like that. I thought you'd run mad. I'm Thaddeus, good to meet you."

Anders laughed and held out his hand, which was firmly shaken. "Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. I was expecting Hengen, he would have known who I am. Is he-?"

A look of sorrow crossed Thaddeus' face. "Taken. Halfway to Denerim and the Grand Cleric's fires by now, I imagine. He was named."

Anders comprehensively damned the Grand Cleric, the Chantry and all their works to the Black City. By the time he'd run out of breath, Thaddeus had shown him into a shabby living-room. He accepted a drink of something rather stronger than water and watched while Thaddeus poured into small ceramic pots. "Don't worry Thaddeus, we'll stop it. King Alistair won't stand for any more mage-burnings. He'll send more troops this time; put the Templars _and_ the mob down."

Thaddeus handed Anders a pot of comfort and took his own seat. "It's true then, you have the King's ear? When word came from the South Reach cell, I didn't know whether to believe it."

"I do, and I can give you my absolute assurance that Alistair is doing all he can to solve this mess." Anders took a fortifying, but eye-watering sip and gasped.

"Good stuff, isn't it? It sets off as cider, but a little fire and ice concentrates it, makes it more potent." Thaddeus took a sip himself and frowned. "This King Alistair though, he's the _King_. Surely he can stop them anytime he likes."

"Yep, he could send his own troops against them tomorrow. Put the Grand Cleric in chains and throw her in Fort Drakon. But what then?" Anders shrugged. "Yes, he can do all of that, but without the nobles supporting his actions, he won't have an army to protect us when the Divine sends an Exalted March against Ferelden."

"Ah." Thaddeus nodded philosophically and took another sip. "Politics."

"But he won't stand for any more torture, mutilation or public execution. He's already told the Divine that much, at least."

Anders' reassurance seemed to have a positive effect. "Well, that's something anyhow, and more than we hoped for. See, the Collective members around here, they're nervous in case Hengen gives up their names. And, as you know, jittery mages is never good."

"Uh huh. It leads to whopping great holes in the ground; or worse, whopping great holes in the Fade." Anders gingerly took another sip. "So, what's the latest news?"

"Nothing good." Thaddeus frowned into his cup. "I hear they had to move the children out of Denerim. Chantry got a sniff of where they were set up and they had to do a runner. Nowhere's safe anymore."

"Damn. Do you know where they've gone?"

"Holed up somewhere, I reckon, but I don't know for sure."

Anders rubbed a thoughtful thumb on the smooth wood of the staff next to him. There was an obvious answer to their problem, but it could get him strung up from the battlements of the Vigil by his bollocks. _Oh, well._ "Look, if you have a chance to get a message to them, tell them to take the children to Vigil's Keep. Warden Commander Leonie won't let anything happen to a bunch of kiddies."

"I'll do that, Warden. Thanks."

_-oOo-_

"Maker, Teagan, it was only dancing. I can't say I was totally comfortable with it, but it's not _that_ bad."

The Arl crossed his legs and spread his hands helplessly. "I agree with you, Alistair, but it has upset some of the Banns. It's compounded the worries that you are being led into Orlesian ways."

Alistair stared at him, horrified. "What, they think that I'm… with a…" He swallowed and tried again. "I'm _married_, Teagan, and very happily so."

Teagan tried to smother a grin and failed miserably. "I don't doubt it and neither do they. No, merely that you are permitting traditional Ferelden manners and attitudes to be compromised. Although to be truthful, I think they were less worried about Prince Philippe dancing with a man, and more that he was dancing with an _elf_."

Alistair's mouth set in a stubborn line. "Well, _that _they can just-"

"Excuse me, Your Grace, Your Majesty." Teagan's Chamberlain, Edgar, bowed as he entered the room. "I apologise for intruding upon you, but Knight Commander Cullen is here, requesting an audience with the King."

_-oOo-_

_Where the sodding hell is Anders when I need him?_

Alistair left Cullen kicking his heels in an antechamber while a runner went down to town to find his Court Mage. When the runner returned to say that no-one in the village had seen Anders for the last hour, he was left with little choice but to interview the Knight Commander without him.

"Maker's Blessings on you, Your Majesty." Knight Commander Cullen bowed deferentially in the usual Templar fashion.

"Good morning, Knight Commander." Alistair had commandeered Teagan's audience chamber and was seated in the Arl's throne, flanked by Teagan and Leliana. "I confess I was hoping to receive the First Enchanter." _Or indeed any other of the Senior Mages, if Irving is ill_, he added silently. The gaping hole at the Knight Commander's side was both disturbing and unusual.

"The First Enchanter is unfit to undertake such a duty at this time, Sire. If your wish is to receive a report on the security of the Circle, I trust I shall be able to set your mind at rest."

"A report on the security of the Circle and the welfare of the mages will be most welcome; please do continue." He felt sure Cullen caught the slight stress on the additional part of the report he was requesting.

"The Circle is in good shape, sire. My Templars remain vigilant and watchful. The mages understand the dangers that their existence represents and exercise extreme caution at all times. I have implemented activity rotas which assist them in reducing the threat, and I am informed that they are much more relaxed and happy as a result."

"So, you've finally got them running on little wheels like the caged pets they are."

The cheerful voice from the door held a definite challenge, but Alistair breathed a sigh of relief despite the increase in hostility. "Anders, please, come up here beside me. You know the Knight Commander, I'm sure."

"Cullen." Anders nodded dismissively as he passed, stepping up to join the group on the dais. "Where's Irving?"

The Knight Commander's mouth tightened. "As I have already explained, the First Enchanter is unfit for the duty of reporting on the Circle's welfare."

"Oh, is he ill? Which Senior Enchanter is covering for him? And why isn't he or she here?" Anders had one arm leant on the back of Alistair's throne in a highly inappropriate manner for a formal meeting, but the King allowed both this, and his rapid-fire questions, to stand. He was just as interested in the results, and knew perfectly well why Anders was making a display of his standing.

It was obvious that Anders' manner and mere presence was acting as an irritant to the Knight Commander, but he answered courteously. "The First Enchanter is undertaking what duties he can, and has been satisfied to permit me to pick up those he cannot deal with. There are mages assisting me in this."

"If there are mages assisting you, why aren't they here?" Anders was bristling with suspicion, Alistair could feel it, but his posture remained nonchalant.

"I saw no need for them to attend." Cullen addressed his answer to the group at large, but shot Anders a hostile glance. "I see no advantage to taking mages outside the protection of the Circle."

After a moment, Alistair shifted slightly in his seat and took the situation back into his control. As he asked his question, he watched the Knight Commander closely. "If, as you say, the mages are 'relaxed and happy', then can you explain to me why six of them have fled to Orzammar? Some of_ my_ subjects have left my kingdom and taken refuge with King Bhelen. I would like to know what provoked such a thing."

Cullen looked uncomfortable and, for the first time, stuttered slightly. "It w-was the dwarf, Dagna, sire. I freely admit that I was lax. Because she had no magic, I did not see her as a threat and allowed her too much freedom in the Circle. She secretly incited some of the more subversive mages to turn to apostasy and helped them escape. I apologise most sincerely, sire. It will not happen again; the security breach has been closed."

"Exactly which 'subversive mages' are we talking about here?" Anders asked the question and Alistair silently blessed his arrival. The answer would mean something to him, whereas it wouldn't to the rest of them.

"Sire, may I ask what place the Warden has in this meeting?" Cullen's glare was met with Anders' most bland and annoying smirk. "Neither the Circle nor the Chantry is answerable to them and, to my knowledge, they stand independent of the Crown, also."

"I invited Anders some months ago to act as my Court Mage in addition to being the representative of the Grey Wardens at Court. As I recall, Knight Commander, you were made aware of this at the time."

"With respect, Your Majesty, this _apostate _cannot represent the Circle of Mages at your Court. As he is ably demonstrating right now, he has no knowledge of the current situation there. If you wish for a Court Mage, I will be happy to send you one who is suitable."

In the silence that followed this outburst, the temperature seemed to drop significantly. It was a trick Alistair had learnt some time ago, but rarely used. He regarded Cullen for a long moment, keeping his face hard and cold, making sure the Templar knew he had stepped over the line. "I believe I prefer to choose my own advisors, Knight Commander," he said finally, keeping his voice deliberately gentle.

A wave of red flared through Cullen's face, flushing up to the roots of his ginger hair. It was impossible to say whether it stemmed from embarrassment or fury. Certainly his jaw was clenched hard. "As y-you say, sire," he gritted out.

"However, you are correct in saying that I should receive regular updates on the welfare of my subjects in the Circle. In future I shall expect a report from you… let's say every four weeks, shall we?"

A muscle twitched in Cullen's cheek. "As you wish, sire."

"What about the children?" Teagan had kept quiet so far, but he burst in now. "My apologies for interrupting, sire, but I've heard nothing from Connor in months. We need to know that the children are safe."

"They are as safe as it is possible for mages to be, Your Grace, given their inherent instability. I have made their safety and welfare my first concern. They are being carefully and properly taught to respect the dangers inherent in the burden they carry."

"Burden…" Anders choked the word out in simmering fury. "It's only a burden if you're forced to repress it, if you're taught that you should hate yourself for it."

Alistair held up a hand, forestalling any further outburst. "Why has Arl Teagan received no correspondence from his nephew, Knight Commander?"

"Your Majesty, Your Grace, I have to make the decisions that I think best for the welfare of all the mages under my supervision. I do not feel it is conducive to young mages learning their place in the world for them to retain external ties. Therefore I no longer allow them to receive or send letters to their former relatives."

While Teagan protested that he was not a _former_ relative and Anders sputtered that a mage's place in the world should be to be useful, Alistair took a good long look into Cullen's eyes. It appeared he really believed this stuff, really believed that he was doing his duty the best he could. He was willing to bet Grand Cleric Leanna believed she was, too. Alistair wondered how many of the nobles and commoners who feared mages would agree with them.

There was one thing in all of this that seemed to Alistair to be more important than anything else, right now, so he deliberately forced the discussion back to where he needed it to be. "Knight Commander, what is wrong with the First Enchanter?"

The residual mutterings from the previous conversation went silent. Everyone wanted to know the answer to this one.

Cullen thought about it before answering, and his words were a little hesitant. "The retirement of Knight Commander Greagoir hit the First Enchanter hard, I think. They had worked together a long time and I don't think he was looking forward to continuing without him. He began to seek seclusion, to sleep more than he previously had. As I said, I have picked up as many duties as possible to allow him to continue this way for as long as is required."

"Is he ill?" Anders' sharp question received a decisive shake of the head from Cullen.

"No. He is in good health, considering his age." For once, the Knight Commander looked directly at Anders without allowing his distaste for a free mage to show. "I can assure you, I have done all I can to ensure he remains so."

_-oOo-_

As soon as the Knight Commander's audience came to a conclusion, and he had been shown out, Alistair turned to Leliana. "Was he telling the truth?"

She thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "I don't believe he lied at all, but he kept a lot of things back, I think. His body language was very cautious and the whole question of the First Enchanter bothered him a great deal."

Alistair addressed an apparently empty alcove, "Zev?"

The assassin moved into view. "I agree; even when no-one was watching him, his reactions were consistent."

"We should have pressed him harder, got more out of him." Now that he was freed from the restraints of his enemy's presence, Anders was vibrating around the room like a nervous pendulum, his cat winding between his ankles. "He's got the mages on some kind of activity rota? What's he done, imprisoned them all? Does he let them out for exercise for half an hour or something?"

"What's the point of pushing him harder? We would only have got lies if we had, I think." Alistair drummed his fingers on Teagan's throne, thinking. "I could go to the Circle, but they would make sure I only saw what they wanted me to." His thoughtful gaze roamed to the bard and she met his gaze, waiting. "Leliana, I have a question for you, and you too, Zev."

"Yes, Alistair?"

"_Maestà_?_"_

"Do you think you could break into the Circle?"

_-oOo-_


	38. Chapter 38

**_Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year to all my readers! As my Friday posting day lands on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve this year, and I've been too busy to get any writing done, I'm posting just this one inbetween-y chapter, so that I don't destroy my text buffer. Normal service shall be resumed on Friday 7th January. Thank you to everyone who has helped, supported or just generally been friendly to me during 2010, my first year of writing. Best Wishes, Karen xxx_**

_-oOo-_

"There are _no_ windows? None at all?" When even Zevran is demonstrably horrified, then there is little doubt that something is genuinely awful.

Anders shrugged; a bitter twist to his mouth. "It was built with masses of windows; it's Avvar construction and they liked lots of light and air it seems. The Chantry bricked them all up; all of the windows, the balconies, everything. The only remaining windows are in the Harrowing Chamber, presumably because mages are only allowed up there under guard."

There was a peculiar, twisted pleasure in managing to upset such a hardened individual. Anders grinned at the aghast elf. "What, you think the Chantry care if mages get to see daylight or breathe fresh air? Some children come in as toddlers and never leave, in their entire lives. They don't know what daylight _is_."

"The Templars live that way, too," reminded Leliana gently. "Their lives aren't much better, and very few of them choose it."

"They can get out when they're off-duty, go for a walk. They get re-assigned to other locations." Anders swept his hand over the map they were inspecting, indicating the surrounding countryside. "One of the Templars assigned to the Circle turned out to be afraid of enclosed spaces. Greagoir had him re-assigned within two weeks. They knew that I was afraid of enclosed spaces, too. What did I get? They shut me in solitary confinement in a cell for a year. An entire _year._ Don't try to make me feel sympathy for Templars, Leliana. You're wasting your time."

"So the only ways in are either through the front door, or through windows very high up." Zevran scanned the, rather poor, drawings of Kinloch Hold in a book on Avvar construction they'd found in Teagan's library. "No other options?"

"That's difficult to say for sure. A lot of the exits I used to use have been found and blocked. There's no saying whether they all have. Also, you need a two-way route. I only needed to get out. So, the sewer exits I used are no use to you."

"We can't bluff our way in as Templars; there are a few women, but no elves at all." Leliana bit her lip, thinking. "Breaking in seems the only option."

"You know, the only one of us who could get away with bluffing his way in is Alistair." Anders' lips quirked into a smirk at the idea, banishing the bitterness. "Stick a Templar uniform on him and a bucket hat, he has the right bearing and can even throw a cleanse or two around." He sighed wistfully, abandoning a pleasant notion. "Shame he's the King and we can't risk him."

"It looks, from this picture, as though there used to be entrances lower down." Zevran was twisting the book around, as one does in the vain hope of getting a clearer picture from another angle. "You see these arches? They are below the level of the main doors."

"Basement entrances; they were blocked up, but…" Anders frowned down at the book in Zev's hands. "There's a lot of rubble on that side of the island; I hid among it once. Parts of the lower basements are crumbling, I think, and they are above ground on that side because of the incline." He shook his head. "Even if you can get in, several of the doors down there are magically locked. It's why I never tried to get out that way."

"Magically locked on both sides?" asked Leliana. "Or just from above? The Circle defences are designed to keep people in, not out."

"I honestly have no idea. Funnily enough, I never tried to break _into_ the Circle."

"So, we can scout that option out and decide at the time, but we'll need to take climbing gear and assume that we will be climbing up to the Harrowing Chamber. Fortunately there are so many balconies and buttresses it shouldn't be a difficult climb." Zevran glanced at Leliana. "You don't look very happy, my devious bard, is climbing not to your taste?"

"I can do it, but I suspect I'm not as good as you. I was trained to infiltrate; this kind of break-in was always a last resort."

"Hmm, whereas for me this is bread and butter work. Do not worry, I shall take the lead, and you may follow." Zevran closed the book and stretched. "Our main difficulty will be that, after crossing the lake, we shall be cold and wet. The air will be colder the higher we climb, and mist off the lake will make the stone slippery. We shall need roughened gloves and boots for this climb, my dear, to provide better grip. And short weapons only, anything else will be too cumbersome." The gleam in Zevran's eye suggested that he was looking forward to the challenge. "Now, my fine mage, draw for me a map of the interior, if you will, and indicate what we should be looking for. Then we will need to gather our gear and leave immediately. It's a good day's travel to reach the Circle."

_-oOo-_

Kallian was utterly bored. Maddy was taking a nap; she'd started getting sleepy in the afternoons as her pregnancy progressed. Kalli would normally use this time for weapons practice, but if she wanted to keep up the pretence of just being the Queen's maid, then she couldn't do so when in the Arl's castle. She envied the freedom Zevran had, to be openly martial, obviously dangerous. She sighed, trailing her fingers along the wall of the corridor she was mooching along. There was value in the charade she played, it meant that she could go anywhere with Maddy, without making people nervous, but she wished Alistair would allow her to openly be the Queen's bodyguard.

Sounds ahead made her stop suddenly, her forehead creasing as she listened, it sounded like… yes, like _that._ They were sounds that she would never, ever forget.

From within the room ahead, clear through the open door; scuffling, whimpers, the sharp sound of a slap. A flick of her wrist dropped her knives from hidden forearm sheaths and Kallian moved on silent feet to the entrance.

"Ser, please, no…"

A large basket of linens lay next to the door. The bed was half stripped, blankets turned back so that soiled sheets could be removed. On top of this a pair of figures struggled; the back of the man on top was visible from the door and sundry parts of the girl underneath. Her legs dangled off the end of the bed, while he tried to hold both her hands above her head in one of his, unbuttoning his trousers with the other. She was twisting and crying, begging him to stop.

For Kallian the world slowed down; her brain felt numb and yet, at the same time, she had utter clarity. Details stood out sharply; the girl had lost one of her shoes, which lay on the floor next to the bed. In fighting him, she must have clung to one of the bed hangings, as it was partially ripped away from its rings.

_Bastard shem._

_We're having a party and seem to be short on girls._

_Scum-sucking human fucker._

_That's what happens to knife ears what don't know their place._

She had all the time in the world and neither of them had any idea she was there. Tactics and options that had been patiently drilled into her by Zevran utterly failed to cross her mind. Kalli's arms reached around without conscious volition and her sharp, sharp knives sliced across his throat as easily as gutting a fish.

As blood poured down on the pinned girl, her cries turned to hysterical wails of terror.

_-oOo-_

Celene, Empress of Orlais read the report again and sat back, tapping her fingers on the parchment. A miracle from Andraste? Possible, but unlikely. And yet, she had previously heard no whisper of Madeleina having any strange or miraculous abilities. Certainly, had she done so, Celene would not have offered her sister as bride to the King of a backward nation.

Her spy in King Alistair's travelling encampment was lowly, and reported that the King's inner circle were too tight-knit for much information to be available. She considered the information received regarding the Dalish: that Madeleina had regularly spent time alone with the Keepers in their strange, wheeled abodes, and that a group consisting of the King and Queen, their personal friends and some Dalish had several times gone out into the forest together, leaving behind the Royal guard. Also that, on one of these expeditions, the King had captured four Chantry Templars, openly declared them traitors, and ordered them imprisoned in Fort Drakon.

The report she'd received from Denerim provided other information; that the Chantry were now much more active, more hostile, against mages. Also, that the King's Chancellor had turned out the Palace Guard to attend a Chantry execution, but left without taking any action.

There were many puzzle pieces, but not enough for Celene to fathom the minds and intentions of King Alistair and Queen Madeleina. She regretted not taking the trouble to get to know her younger sister when she had the opportunity. If the events at Lothering were not happenstance, then it was a catastrophe for Orlais to have allowed such a treasure to escape her grasp. At the very least, it seemed certain that blighted Ferelden would not need to buy Orlesian grain for much longer with such a resource at their disposal.

The Empress considered a moment longer, and then rang a small bell on her desk. A servant entered the room immediately and bowed.

"Send a message to the Cathedral informing the Divine that I wish to see her immediately."

"Très bien, Majesté."

_-oOo-_

"Where is Kallian now?"

"She's in the dungeon." Teagan threw up his hands defensively in the face of Alistair's accusing glare. "It was for her own protection, Alistair. When I received the message that she was in custody at the guard post, I went straight over there; it was obvious they hadn't been gentle."

"What? They had no right-"

"Alistair, try to see it from their perspective. Lord Peddlegate, a guest in my castle, had his throat slashed open by a serving maid. There's a chambermaid in hysterics, covered in his blood, who won't say a word about what happened, and the Queen's serving maid wielding a pair of daggers that no-one even knew she owned. The guard tell me that Kallian was hissing and spitting curses like a wildcat and that it took six of them to put her down. Two guards were injured."

"Trust me, she wasn't really trying. Otherwise, at least four of them would be dead." Alistair rubbed his hands through his hair, slumping in his seat. "I knew she owned the daggers. Also that, under her dress, she wears adapted leather armour. She's Maddy's personal bodyguard and she trains with Zev. Even I can't easily put her down."

"I see." Teagan subsided, frowning. "That still doesn't explain what happened. I imagine there was an… incident with the girl. I can't say I approve, but cutting his throat open? Somewhat drastic, I'd say. If she'd merely injured him…"

"I know," groaned Alistair. "Kalli has… issues with rapists, and particularly with human noble ones. When I employed her, I told her that if someone forced themselves on anyone under my roof, she was welcome to cut off whatever bits she fancied. I didn't think she'd choose his head. And this isn't my roof."

"Please, feel free to treat it as though it were. I have the Right of High Justice here, but with you in residence the Right is yours. Not that I envy you the task. Lord Peddlegate's allegiance lies with Bann Damon of Mannisfere and he's up in arms about this."

"Oh, good-o." Alistair straightened in his chair, mentally preparing to grasp the reins. "First of all, get the other girl up here. I need to know what actually happened."

_-oOo-_

"So, you and Prince Philippe, then?"

Zevran kept his reply light, although the bard's question made his stomach churn. "Is this because we danced? Perhaps then I should be asking about you and the handsome Arl." He picked his way over stones, glad it was early autumn at least and the fields were still dry. Staying off the road had seemed like the most prudent option for this expedition. "He didn't take his eyes off you that evening. I hope when you are Arlessa, you won't forget your old friends, hmm?"

Leliana shook her head, her cheeks pink. "That is not true, and you are just trying to distract me. Anyway, you won't need any of us with such a powerful protector. A Prince of Orlais is quite a catch, no?"

"A catch fit for a Princess." He was proud of how bland his voice remained. "You know, we have many Princesses in Antiva. The royal family tree is something of a hawthorn bush. Princes come and go according to their politics and the size of their Crow cell, but a lot of minor Princesses get overlooked and survive. Perhaps I should send the Empress a list."

Leliana stopped in front of him and turned, cocking her head like a curious bird. "To the Empress? Is she…?"

Zevran cursed himself. How had that last part slipped out? He was getting careless. "Is she what, dear Leliana? Looking to make alliances between her house and those of other royalty? Of course; aren't they all?"

"I see."

Unfortunately, it seemed she probably did. Time to distract her. "So, if not the handsome Arl, is it to be the dashing Warden, instead?"

"What? No! No, I haven't seen him for-" She stopped at this interesting point and regarded Zevran suspiciously. "_Which_ Warden?"

"Hmm, well_ I_ meant our sexy mage, but if you have another in mind, then do tell me all about it. Is he handsome? Talented?" Zev allowed his voice to drop to a purr for the last word and her reaction showed that, whoever he was, she had definitely enjoyed him.

Hoisted on the petard of her own curiosity, Leliana tossed her head and turned away, setting a new and brisker pace. "I think we should hurry up if we want to get to the Circle by nightfall; we don't want to have to hang around for a full day."

"As you wish, my pretty songbird."

_-oOo-_

"Our orders are to keep everyone away from her."

"I don't give a rat's arse what your orders are. I'm the Captain of the King's Guard and you are going to let me pass."

The unusually harsh tone in Cedric's voice brought Kallian's head up from where she crouched, huddled in her cell. Moments later the door opened and she squinted in the sudden light. In the doorway she could see Cedric's stocky figure, made more bulky by his armour. Behind his shoulder was a taller shape, blond hair halo'ed by the lamps in the corridor. Anders.

The warrior swore fluently as soon as he set eyes on her. "Sodding bastards. If I find any of _my_ men did this, I'll flay them alive."

The mage moved past him and crouched in the filth beside her. "Morning, Kalli," he said cheerfully, lifting her head to inspect the damage. "Arl Teagan's cells leave a lot to be desired, don't they? We'll have to inspect the accommodations in future, so we know which estates it's safe to stab people up on." Healing magic flowed from him and the swelling around her eyes and the contusion on her jaw sunk to nothing, while the bruising faded. "Anywhere else I should know about?"

"Ribs." Kalli shifted, lifting her dress to reveal her armour. He unbuckled the side she indicated. "Armour saved me, I think. Just bruised, not cracked."

A crease appeared between Anders' eyes as he concentrated, before nodding. "Yep, just bruises; all done now. Oh, the joys of being kicked in the ribs. How I miss it."

"Grow your ears to points, then you can enjoy it whenever you want."

"Pack that in." The fury in Cedric's voice made Kallian stare. "D'you think they would have spared any of us, if we cut a nobleman's throat like you did? Do you reckon any of my lads would be tucked up all comfy in the barracks after a caper like that?" The hoarse, angry questions were at odd variance with his behaviour. Whilst throwing all this vitriol at her, he was drawing a cloak from a bag and tucking it around her shoulders. "If you were under my command, I'd have you flogged. Why the soddin' hell didn't you drop him, nice and quiet, and bundle him off to Alistair for judgement? Instead of which-" he cut off short and turned away, apparently to root in the bag.

"They're gonna hang me, aren't they?"

At her quiet question, Cedric's shoulders slumped, but he made no answer. Instead, he pulled food out of the bag, bread and ham and cheese, and began to lay it out on a clean cloth for her. It was Anders who responded.

"Alistair's going to have a tough time avoiding it, but he's doing what he can."

"That bastard_ shem_ was _raping_ that girl. But, of course, that's alright, isn't it? Bloody knife-ear should be grateful for his attentions, right?" The bitterness was there, where she expected it to be, but in the face of these two _shem_ men, both obviously concerned for her safety, Kalli just couldn't seem to summon it up properly.

"You know her race doesn't matter to Alistair. But the fact is; rape isn't a capital offence, and murdering a nobleman is." Anders stood, brushing dirt off his robes. "Look, whatever happens, you're not going to hang. If everything else fails, then I'll conscript you. Killing darkspawn should please you well enough, and I know the Commander would be delighted to gain such an accomplished fighter."

Tears pricked at her eyes and she blinked hard. When Cedric knelt down and gave her a swift, hard hug she accepted it, leaning against his shoulder for a moment. Their care broke through her shell, where no amount of hardship could, and the pain of merely _feeling_ was almost unbearable.

"Chin up, girl. We'll weather this yet." There was bristle against her skin as Cedric pressed a light kiss to her forehead before he stood abruptly. The withdrawal of his comforting presence left her feeling oddly bereft, but she nodded, setting her jaw.

She didn't allow the tears to fall until after they had left.

_-oOo-_


	39. Chapter 39

_-oOo-_

"_Mon mari_, this is insupportable." Maddy scowled at her hapless husband who, if truth be told, couldn't agree more. "How can you even be considering hanging Kallian for killing that _violeur_?"

Alistair drew her onto his knee and gently rubbed the slight swell of her belly. It was still a wonder to him that children were growing in there. "Maddy, she isn't going to hang. Anders will conscript her into the Wardens. But I have to be seen to uphold the law, or word will go around the Bannorn like wildfire that I'm not to be trusted."

"But I do not wish her to be a Warden and go away to Amaranthine. I need her." Maddy poked him accusingly in the breastbone. "If it had been I who had come across him in such a way, then I would happily have stuck a knife in him myself. Would you then uphold the_ law_?"

Alistair rubbed the sore spot, trapped her hand in his own, and patiently tried to explain the intricacies of Ferelden custom to his incensed Orlesian wife. "Yes, my love, I would. But if _you_ had done it, then I could have demanded trial by combat and championed you. Bann Damon would be an idiot to face me over such a thing; and that's assuming he was prepared to push it that far in the first place, which is unlikely. I mean to say, it isn't as though this is a member of his family, his son, or anything like that. Lord Peddlegate owed him allegiance, so he has a duty to see justice done, but how far he pushes for it is up to him."

"In Orlais, those of royal blood are above the law. If we said Kallian killed him on our orders, then that would be the end of the matter." Her forehead creased as she tried to understand. "Kallian cannot ask for trial by combat because she is an elf?"

"No, although I'm sure that's why Damon is pushing quite as hard as he is; a noble being killed by an elf, well, there was Vaughan Kendall, but it's really rare and for good reason." He shook his head, remembering. "Last time it happened, the Denerim Alienage was purged; it was… horrible. And Vaughan didn't even die, that was just for attacking him." Alistair looked vaguely embarrassed, realising for the first time where his thoughts were leading. "Er… that was because he… raped Kallian."

"_What_?" If Maddy had appeared enraged before, she was positively incandescent now. "So, what you are saying is that Kallian was raped by a noble and they purged her home as a result of her resisting. Now, she kills a rapist and she is to be hung. And you uphold this?" She pushed at his chest; a vision of moral indignation. "You may let me go, _mon mari_. I do not wish to sit on your knee."

Alistair gripped her tighter, rendering her efforts to escape futile. Despite the severity of the situation, he was overjoyed to see a return of her fiery spirit. "Don't blame me, sweetheart. I was an outlaw Warden when Arl Howe purged the Alienage. I would never do a thing like that. And anyway, Mel had Zev butcher Vaughan like the animal he was.

"But the problem isn't really that she's an elf, although that makes things more difficult. It's because she's a commoner. Rape isn't against the law, as such. If a noblewoman was raped, her father or husband would be within their rights to kill the offender, either on the spot, or in a duel later. If she was martial, she could choose to undertake the duel herself. Commoners don't have the right to kill a nobleman in such a situation."

Maddy stopped wriggling, arrested by an idea. "You must be noble born to have this right?"

"Any noble or knight could have chosen to intervene to save a woman from such a rape. Any noble or knight can call for a duel or for trial by combat. Why?"

"Um, no reason."

Her innocent tone, combined with her cat-in-the-creampot expression made her adoring husband instantly suspicious. "Come on, Maddy, tell me. I _know_ you're up to something."

_-oOo-_

The opportunity to steal a boat had been a stroke of luck, which meant that they arrived dry and not unduly cold. Avoiding the jetties, Zevran hooked the boat to a jutting rock and they clambered up, their weapons and the lightest armour they owned in a bag strung to Zev's belt by a long rope, currently looped up. It had been agreed that the assassin would be free-climbing; Leliana would follow him up, assisted by the ropes he provided at key points and taking the weight of the hanging bag whenever possible.

Crouched on the rocks they surveyed the Tower. The lower part, the flaring construction in which the mages and Templars were housed and worked, would be easy for both of them; there would be no need for ropes at all. The Avvar had provided so many windows and arches that, even though they were bricked up, there were many, many lintels and frames to grip. The slim spire of the tower itself, with the high-up Harrowing Chamber visible as a dim bulge in the moonlight, was where the challenge would lie. Casting an appraising eye over it, Zevran decided that he would need to undertake that part as a single climb, hooking and dropping a rope for Leliana when he reached the useful protuberances of the Harrowing Chamber

"Basement entrance?" murmured Leliana, and Zevran shook his head decisively. Climbing the Tower seemed eminently achievable, and the prospect of facing magical locks and magical guards in the protected basements was less so. He heard her faint, resigned sigh; she faced the climb with less equanimity than he.

Before they began, each of them took the time to check all their equipment, and to scrub their soles and gloves with a rough stone, removing any smoothness accumulated in their trip across the lake. Zevran then led the way, ghosting around to the leeward side of the building on silent feet.

_-oOo-_

After the departure of Cedric and Anders, time passed slowly, providing Kallian with more opportunity for reflection than she was really comfortable with.

The obvious thought, that made her squirm, was that Ced was right; she should have used her head, and put the _shem _down rather than kill him. There was a time when she would have thought differently, when she would have known that there was no point turning someone like that over for justice, because there_ was_ no justice for elves against nobles.

Now, she'd travelled with Alistair and Maddy long enough to know that they would have done their best, and that their best was pretty bloody good. She knew, as well, that every single other person bearing arms in the King's retinue would have shown more sense than she did.

_Maker damn my temper to the Black City_.

It had been more than just temper though; the sight of… what he was trying to do had shoved everything else out of her head, had emptied her of everything except the kill.

_It's probably all worked out as it was meant to, anyway. So many people died because I resisted Vaughan, and now I'll die saving someone else from another _shem_ worm._

The thought brought resignation, but not comfort. This job had been a second chance; an opportunity to make something of herself. And, she had learnt _so much._ Not only how to fight, but what the world was like outside the Alienage, and the difference between a human and a _shem_. The difference between an elf and a knife-ear, too; Zevran had shown her that, he'd demonstrated beyond doubt that you didn't have to be a victim just because your ears ended in points.

_Valendrian and Shianni will be so disappointed in me_.

That thought above all others dropped her head between her knees, dampening the straw below her with tears.

The arrival of Maddy changed everything.

_-oOo-_

They rested on the final struts, the last outcroppings of stone that supported the improbable spire. Up close it did not seem as narrow, or as smooth, as it had appeared from a distance. Squinting upwards, Zevran could see lines of small studs at regular intervals, good footholds and handholds for some of the way, at least.

He left the bag with Leliana, taking only what he needed for the climb. Cold and damp would be his greatest enemies; the higher he climbed the colder it would get, while the mist off the lake made the stone slippery and dangerous for numbed fingers.

"Good luck," she murmured, as he made his final preparations, and he nodded in acknowledgement. Cocky quips were not appropriate at a time like this; not when one was working.

Zev probed for, and found, a toehold in the stone, and another for his fingers. He would first need to move crabwise around the tower to get in line with the studs he had spotted. Slowly, carefully, he made a beginning.

Although still on the leeward side, the line of small protrusions caught a little of the wind; being not so perfectly sheltered. Still, this was a fair trade-off for not having to find, and cling to, the tiniest cracks and mortar-lines in the stone. Once lined up, he made good progress; the studs were in groups of three; he would guess that they lined up with key stress points in the internal staircase. Then there was a gap, where Zevran was forced to climb the hard way, clinging to the rock like a desperate insect, before reaching the next set of studs. The relief to cramped, cold fingers was enormous; the studs offering an opportunity to hold on with one hand and warm the other before continuing.

In this way he climbed, slow, careful and painstaking, seeing the spikes and protrusions that surrounded the Harrowing Chamber become sharper and clearer as he grew nearer. The higher he climbed the more difficult it became, the wind causing more problems, the wet stone trying to slither away from his grip. On the next to last set of studs he hung, panting, working some life back into frozen fingers, scanning for something, anything, that would assist in the final stretch. The stone above him seemed too smooth, too perfect, until he shifted his head just so and the moonlight caught in tiny cracks.

He could do this.

He had to.

With grim determination, Zevran dug his fingers into those tiny holes, unable to feel properly whether they were secure, and pulled up his weight, scrabbling for new footholds. One more stretch would see him to the final studs, and from there to a true resting point. Not trusting his fingers to feel for a new handhold, he moved his feet first, gingerly seeking somewhere secure to dig them in, splayed out against the wall, the tendons in his thighs protesting. Only once he was certain he was secure did he carefully move one hand and then the other, feeling the comforting bulk of the little stud under his seeking fingers.

With a whispered thanks to the Maker, Zev inched up the stone from stud to stud until finally he was able to hook his arm over one of the spikes that arced out from the base of the squat, cylindrical Chamber. Once he was securely, or comparatively securely, seated on one of these, he tied himself off; looping the rope over the spike, he let it down, first for the bag to be hauled up, and lastly for Leliana to use to assist her own climb.

Zevran tucked his hands under his arms and tried to ignore the pins and needles that flared through them as his blood reacted to the sudden warmth. Once they were functional again he tugged on the rope and felt the change in tension, as Leliana began to make her slow way up to join him.

_-oOo-_

Redcliffe's Great Hall was crowded; every Bann and minor lord in residence for the King's visit had turned up to see justice done for the killing of Lord Peddlegate. Prominent among them was Bann Damon, his usually cheerful face marred with a scowl. As they waited for the arrival of the King and Queen, Arl Teagan took the time to speak to him, hoping to calm the situation somewhat.

It wasn't going quite as badly as he'd feared.

"Burn it, your Grace, I know as well as you do that Peddlegate was a useless, whoring son of a bitch, and if I'd caught him in my hall with his trousers 'round his ankles, I'd be as annoyed as you are. It's damned bad form, that's what it is."

Teagan murmured agreement with this hopeful-sounding outburst, knowing that Damon would need little encouragement to air his views further. He was, in Teagan's opinion, a good man; a bluff, solid Bann who took his duties seriously. In this instance, however, his duty as he saw it was to ensure justice for Peddlegate's death.

"Damned bad form," re-iterated the Bann, "and both you, and the gel, should be due a spot of recompense from him. Which would be all well and fine if he was here to provide it, and there's the rub, eh?" Damon's brow clouded further. "It's a shocking business, your Grace, truly shocking; for a man in his position to be murdered by an elf, a maid, and not even the one he was botherin' with his attentions."

_Raping_, thought Teagan. _Tell it like it is - you don't hold back the rest of the time_. He opened his mouth to ask the Bann what the difference was between being killed by the girl you were 'bothering' or being killed by another girl seeking to save her, but the entry of Alistair and Maddy cut the conversation short and so Teagan was obliged to excuse himself, and to join them on the dais.

_-oOo-_

At the bottom of the staircase, where the Templar Quarters began, Zevran halted briefly to take stock. Anders had given him a fairly comprehensive idea of the layout of the Circle, but the one area he had less information about was the Templar Quarters, which were off-limits to mages except when specifically invited.

Leliana would wait here on the stairs to ensure that their exit remained clear. Two of them wandering around the Tower would provide twice as much risk of capture as one, and the bard was better at constructing subtle traps to confuse any Templars who might conceivably decide to wander up to the Harrowing Chamber. It was vital that they not realise that they had been trapped; Alistair wanted this mission undertaken in total secrecy.

The corridor was only very dimly lit and unguarded. Anders had warned them to expect guards throughout the Mages Quarters and at the entrance to the Templar Quarters, but had correctly guessed that the area occupied by the Chantry soldiers, and that occupied by the Tranquil also, would be less closely monitored. However, it would also have more late-night foot-traffic, as various Templar guards changed shifts at odd hours.

"_They used to all work the same shifts: two-ten, ten-six, six-two." Anders' smirk had been suitably wicked. "Then, they finally worked out that several of my escapes had happened at the low point in the late night ten-six shift, when the Templars are all too tired to think clearly, so they started using a more complex rota."_

Much though Zevran admired Anders' tenacious pursuit of freedom, its results were going to be a little tiresome once he reached the Mages Quarters. First of all, though, he must find the Knight Commander's office. Anders had informed him where Greagoir's office was situated; they had to assume that Cullen was using the same room.

"_It should be fairly easy to get to; it's on the opposite side from all the Templar bedrooms, so that he can interview mages without them invading the Templars' precious privacy."_

Anders turned out to be entirely correct. There was virtually no traffic on this side of the building and Zev was easily able to slip past the one or two bodies ambling in the direction of their beds. The lock on the door was mundane, and gave easily under the probing of a careful pick. Once inside, he shut the door carefully and quietly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness before moving. He could pick out the bulk of a desk and a couple of cabinets, but his sharp eyes were primarily looking for one thing.

There: the faint outline of a door at the back of the room. Anders had warned him that the Knight Commander's office was part of a suite of rooms. Zev needed to ensure that, before he struck a light in here, no glimmer would show under this door to alert Cullen, if he proved to be awake. A thick strip of cloth, tied around his waist for this purpose, was carefully tucked along the bottom edge of the door; only then did he seek, with careful fingers, a lamp on the desk.

The flare of the lamp illuminated the room, throwing into sharp focus the previously dim lumps of furniture. The massive desk dominated the room; there were bookshelves against the wall, a locked cabinet, and a large chest.

A pair of gauntlets lay carelessly discarded next to a neat stack of papers. Zevran skimmed these first: a letter from a food merchant apologising for price rises caused by shortages; an account from the Wonders of Thedas showing sales and receipts of goods; Alistair's letter to Irving, asking him to attend at Redcliffe – this had been crumpled and then subsequently smoothed out. There was also a half-finished rota for the mages, listing when each was permitted time in the library, when they would eat and when they were expected to teach classes. There was a completed rota for apprentices; a great deal of their time appeared to be spent in Chantry studies, the rest in supervised classes, eating and sleeping. Neither rota included any relaxation at all, but this did not strike Zevran as odd; compared to a Crow apprentice the entire pace of the apprentice mages' life seemed rather leisurely.

The desk drawers, once unlocked, proved a little more fruitful. There was no correspondence of note; it seemed that Cullen, like most people of sense, kept only routine paperwork. There was, however, a large sheaf of accounts from various people regarding the receipt and sale of magical goods. Mindful of what Anders had said some time ago about the rise in availability of such wares, Zev sifted through them as quickly as possible. Several were for the Wonders of Thedas, others for individual Formari merchants. There were also some from shipping merchants regarding the export of such goods to Orlais, Rivain, and Antiva.

The lists contained not only weapons, armour, and boxes of runes, but also magical trinkets and devices that Zevran had previously seen on the Antivan markets, but which were usually imported from Tevinter. He memorized as much as he could of this before moving on, wishing, in a way, that Leliana had come down with him. Absorbing this kind of information was much more her skill than his.

The chest contained lyrium, and was much like the one he'd examined in the Grand Cleric's office. This time, he had come prepared, and swapped out a number of the little bottles and boxes, choosing ones which clearly bore the Chantry seal.

Having picked the lock on the cabinet, he found it contained an assortment of items that Zevran assumed to be contraband, taken from the students over the years. Magically enhancing itching powder jostled against bottles of suspicious-looking ink, quills and paper skittered away from his touch - enchanted to do so, no doubt. A small book listed what had been taken, from whom, and when. The entries went back decades, and Zev was amused to see Anders' name jumping out at him over and over. The entries stopped abruptly several months ago; there were no entries in Cullen's handwriting.

A quick scan of the room showed nothing else of note. Zev carefully re-locked everything, checked for signs of his passing, killed the light and retrieved his sash. He left the room, locking it again, and prowled along the corridor, stopping short when, after a curving turn, two alert Templar guards became visible outside a door. He frowned at them; why would a room on the Templar floor be guarded so assiduously? Unfortunately, this was a mystery he would not be able to plumb without giving away his presence. He could only note it and move on, drifting silently in the other direction, aiming for the stairs down to the Senior Mages quarters. Practicing a small distraction on the guards at the bottom of the stairs, allowing him to slip past, would not cause an alert. Doing so on those guarding a specific room was too great a risk.

_-oOo-_

The appearance of the King and Queen settled the room somewhat, residual conversations dropping to a respectful murmur before drawing to a conclusion. Only once everyone was silent, did Alistair speak.

"We are called upon to provide High Justice in the matter of the death of Lord Peddlegate at the hands of Kallian Tabris. Captain, please admit the accused."

It was Cedric, stationed near the door, who bowed and briefly departed, beating Teagan's Captain to the punch. When he returned he was accompanied by a small, slight, dark-haired figure that Teagan, with some difficulty, recognised as Maddy's maid. In place of the dark, sober dress she usually wore, she was now encased in extremely good quality leather armour with twin scabbards at her back. The daggers from these lay in the hands of Captain Cedric. The deplorable damage to her face, caused – to his shame – by Teagan's own guards, had been healed. Her gaze narrowed as she entered, obviously feeling the battery of eyes upon her, but she kept her composure well and walked down to kneel before the King with all the feline grace of a trained fighter.

Her arrival caused something of a commotion. Everything from murmurs of surprise to outraged expostulations erupted around the room. It seemed that the assembled nobility were, to a man, taking exception to her attire.

"Silence for the King!" Cedric's roar brought about an immediate hush, which Alistair quickly stepped into.

"Ser Kallian, you may stand."

As Kallian arose smoothly from one knee, there was a moment of stunned silence, during which it seemed that most of the room inhaled. Teagan closed his eyes and breathed a short prayer, waiting for the storm to break. He really, _really_ wished Alistair had warned him about this.

"_What_?"

"Did he say…?"

"She_ can't_ be."

Again the nobles exploded into appalled speech, and again, Alistair gave them a moment before nodding to Cedric. The King's Captain called for silence and, by dint of a voice trained to command, he finally got it.

Alistair's clear voice reached everyone in the room. "Now that we have order again, I shall permit one person to explain to me the reason for this outburst. Bann Damon, in view of the fact that you are bringing the charges against Ser Kallian, perhaps you'd like to speak?"

The King appeared relaxed and in reasonable command, but Teagan, knowing him as he did and standing beside him, could see the tension in how he gripped the arm of his chair, and hear the slight nervous tremor in his voice.

"Your Majesty, I was told that Lord Peddlegate had been murdered by the Queen's personal maid." Bann Damon rolled his eyes towards Kallian, regarding her as one might view a wild animal discovered wearing clothes and sipping tea. "Now, this… creature walks in here like _that_, and you address her as a _knight_?" The Bann seemed to be struggling for words with which to express the obvious. "Sire, she's an _elf_."

"I am aware of that fact, Damon, thank you." Alistair's charming grin bounced off the Bann's face of horror and he shrugged slightly, turning to raise an eyebrow at his wife. Maddy nodded and took over from him.

"Ser Kallian is my personal bodyguard, appointed the day following my marriage and coronation. As you are all no doubt aware, on the eve of my wedding, only days after I arrived in Ferelden, assassins broke into the Palace and made an attempt upon my life." This reference brought about a softening in the expressions of the assembled lords, making Teagan suspect that its inclusion had been deliberate.

"My husband deemed it necessary to provide me with a bodyguard who could follow me anywhere," continued the Queen, "which meant that she had to be female. It was also considered advantageous for her to be invisible, so she has been acting as my maid." Maddy smiled down at Kallian, the bond of affection between them obvious. "Unfortunately, this contretemps has robbed us of our ruse, so there is no advantage now in hiding her status."

Bann Damon drew in a breath before responding, making an obvious effort to remain civil. "That's all very well, Your Majesty, but doesn't explain why she is a Knight of Ferelden. She's an _elf_." He re-iterated this fact as though it were a clinching argument.

"And that is exactly why she has to be a Knight to do her job." The King's response had a finality to it that made the Bann press his lips together over any further outburst. "Do I have to remind any of you that the attempt on my Queen's life brought into disrepute one of the oldest noble houses in Ferelden? Kallian's duty is to protect Madeleina's life, and that of the heirs to the throne, at any cost. This means cutting down _anyone_ who threatens her, regardless of their rank. As a Knight in service to the Crown, Kallian's duty in that regard is clear-cut and undisputable."

Alistair shifted slightly in his chair, moving his attention away from Bann Damon, to the assembled nobles in general. "Regarding the matter of Lord Peddlegate; I have interviewed the maid, Harrina, the victim in this scenario and the only witness. Her account confirms what the evidence of damage in the room, and Kallian's report had already stated – that he attacked Harrina without provocation, and was in the process of attempting a rape when Ser Kallian intervened. Are there any here who would speak against this?"

There was silence. As Damon had said to Teagan, Peddlegate was well known for his lack of moral fibre.

"Very well. Although a Knight of Ferelden has no _duty_ to intervene is such a situation, their _right_ to do so is undisputed." Teagan saw it fall into place behind Bann Damon's eyes at Alistair's words. He'd just been let off the hook; saved from being forced to uphold justice on behalf of a worm of a man that he despised. The Arl wondered if the good Bann felt the price was worth it, and did his level best to stop his shoulders from shaking. Sometime in the last two years, when the Arl's attention had been elsewhere, Alistair had developed some statecraft. Either that or his new wife had tutored him well. _I wonder if Eamon knows_, mused Teagan. Personally, he was delighted to see this burgeoning maturity; in many ways Alistair was turning out to be much more Maric's son that Cailan had been.

"On that basis, I uphold Ser Kallian's actions and dismiss the case. Captain, you may return Kallian's weapons. Kallian, you may return to your duties." Alistair was already rising and offering his hand to his Queen. Cedric handed Kalli's weapons back to her; she sheathed them with a practiced movement and fell in behind Maddy with an efficiency that upheld their claims entirely. If the elf had a rather stunned look in her eye, it seemed unlikely that any of the nobles would look closely enough to see it.

_-oOo-_


	40. Chapter 40

_-oOo-_

Even here, far from the heart of the Bannorn, the harvest was critical, and every able-bodied man rallied round for it. When even Arl Teagan turned up at breakfast in homespun clothes, Alistair insisted on doing his bit.

"Alistair, are you sure you want to?" Teagan frowned, concerned. "There'll be no way of guarding you."

"I was thinking I'd poke the King's Own and get them to help out with the harvest." Alistair dug into his breakfast and grinned like a boy. "Philippe, you should come too, get some colour in your cheeks."

"Oh? What colour are you hoping for, _mon frère_? As I burn in the sun, _la couleur_ you are most likely to see is raw flesh." Alistair laughed at Philippe's grumpy tone and threw a cheerful breadroll at him; his brother-in-law was not good at mornings at the best of time, and been in a mood for days, ever since Zevran and Leliana left.

"You can wear a hat. Come on, it'll be good for you, anything is better than watching you mope."

Philippe sipped his tea and frowned direfully at his tormentor. "I do not mope. I conduct myself like a _gentilhomme, _which does_ not_ involve getting straw in one's hair."

A tinge of colour appeared in Teagan's lean cheeks at some stray memory. "Oh, I don't know…" he murmured.

A battery of interested eyes turned to the Arl, who kept his head down and devoted himself to the consumption of his breakfast.

Upon rising from the breakfast table, the King changed into plain shirt and loose trousers and tromped down to the fields, laughing and joking with his men as though on a high treat. Several hours wielding a scythe did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm and, when they broke for lunch, he consumed a tankard of cider and several rustic pastries with every evidence of enjoyment.

Seeing him so, the awestruck farmers and peasants began to relax a little and, as a direct result, a curious incident occurred. A man slowly shuffled over to where Alistair and Teagan stood in a cluster of workers, chatting in a desultory way as they ate their lunch. The slightly furtive nature of his advance alerted Cedric, who stepped in front of the King to prevent his approach. He made no attempt to pass the Captain, merely twisting his hat between his hands and looking nervous.

A sixth sense for Cedric's sudden tension made Alistair turn, and seeing the situation, he laid a reassuring hand on Ced's arm. "It's fine," he said, and stepped up to his Captain's side. "Was there something you wanted?" he asked the newcomer with a smile.

Alistair's easygoing charm seemed to put the man a little more at ease, although he was still obviously uncomfortable. "Um… if it please you, Your Majesty, I was wonderin'…" he moistened his dry lips, "I was wonderin' if it were possible to get the help o' the Blessed Lady."

"The B- Oh, you mean M- You mean the Queen?" At the man's enthusiastic nod, Alistair relaxed, pleased. "Of course; of course we'll help. If you speak to the Arl's secretary, he'll arrange an appointment for her to come out and attend to your fields, sometime in the next couple of days."

"Oh… um… not the fields, Your Majesty. I was hopin' that… I mean, I was wishful of…" under Alistair's puzzled gaze, the man flushed up to his side-whiskers. "It's my wife," he blurted, casting a desperate look up at his monarch, "she… well, we ain't got no children, you see, an' we was thinking that maybe if your sainted lady was to lay her hands on my Bessie, then the Maker might see fit to bless us with a little 'un."

"Oh." Alistair looked at him blankly for a moment. "I- er… I don't think she can do that." At the farmer's downcast look, he hastened to explain. "Not that she wouldn't try for you; I just don't think she can make anything fertile, apart from plants."

"Beggin' your pardon, Your Majesty, but the Queen… well… I heard that she's the chosen of Holy Andraste and has done miracles." Alistair nodded slowly at the man's slow, painful logic; he could clearly see the pitfall looming before him, but was left with no real choice but to topple into it. "Well now, I be thinkin' that it ain't for us to say what power the Almighty sees fit to grant her."

_Maker damn me for an idiot, why didn't I see this coming_?

"Um… perhaps you are right, I-"

"Your Majesty!" The voice came from behind him, sharply imperative, and Alistair turned, relieved. A messenger from the castle, red and sweating in the sun, bowed. "Lady Leliana and Signore Arainai have returned, sire. His Highness, the Queen's brother, said you'd wish to be informed immediately."

_-oOo-_

Whether he was prepared to admit it to Alistair or not, Philippe was well aware that he was, in fact, moping. Never before had he watched as a loved one rode off into obvious danger. Never before had he experienced the torment of not knowing if they, he, would return.

It was driving him mad.

After all the husky enthusiasts left for a day of hauling in crops, Philippe ambled aimlessly off to annoy his sister. She gave his languishing expression one exasperated look, and announced her intention of inspecting the kitchen gardens. These proved to be quite extensive, and were in the process of being reseeded with winter vegetables. This was, of course, meat and drink to his Maddy; after a while he left her locked in an animated discussion with the Head Gardener, concerning precisely how much frost parsnips and sprouts required, in order to be at their best.

Philippe wandered back to the front of the castle and stood on the battlements, looking out over the road. He'd spent rather a lot of time here yesterday. He began to realise why Zevran behaved as he did.

_If he doesn't come back, if something has gone wrong... _

Philippe didn't want to think too closely about that; but it seemed certain that, if the worst happened, he would always regret not snatching at happiness when it was offered.

_Four days_.

They had said that it took a day's travel to get to the Circle Tower. However many times he did the numbers, however many times he reminded himself that they would have to wait for nightfall once they arrived, he still couldn't make it add up any differently. They were overdue; not by much, but enough to chew on his nerves.

An hour or so of these whirling thoughts was about as much as Philippe could stand. He was just about to give up and go when he saw them; two figures approaching up the hill, the morning sun catching copper and gold lights in their hair.

_-oOo-_

It didn't seem to matter how many experiences you had in your life, there were always new ones to take your breath away.

This one was definitely new.

The two of them were barely through the gates when Philippe descended upon Zevran. The Antivan was crushed against an immaculately tailored silk doublet and kissed with a kind of desperate intensity he'd never before encountered. Never one to waste opportunity, Zev dropped his bag to the flagstones and buried his hands in Philippe's hair, dragging it from the neat silk ribbon. The warmth and taste of his prince was so sudden, so unexpected, his head swam with it and he opened to the assault with unusual passivity.

After a few moments of idyllic bliss, the intensity diminished, becoming a touch languorous before Philippe retreated a little further, so that their mouths barely touched. Zevran's face was held between two soft hands, long fingers tracing his tattoo.

"Praise be to the Maker, you're safe." The words were murmured against his lips and created a frisson of shock in the assassin. The idea that there had been someone worried about him, waiting for him to return safely…

It was unthinkable.

A faint giggle broke the moment; Leliana, having thus far refrained from interrupting, now spoke, "We need to clean up and report to Alistair. Is he here?"

Philippe pulled his mouth from Zev's, turning his head to look at her. One hand slid down to rest against a tanned throat, while the other smoothed over blond hair. "_J m'excuse_, Leliana, I was rude to ignore you. Alistair is out in the fields with Arl Teagan and others. I'll get a runner to fetch him."

Leliana made a leg, demonstrating a flawless Orlesian Court bow, despite her martial gear and heavy pack. "It's perfectly alright, _siegneur_." Her smile was impish. "I understand completely. When Alistair arrives, please tell him I'll be down as soon as I've bathed and changed." She made her way into the castle, leaving them behind.

"I should clean up also, _mio dolce_ _principe_." Zevran was torn between a deep reluctance to move and the overwhelming instinct to run. "I am soiling your beautiful clothes with my road dust."

The deep blue eyes gazing down at him were filled with so much emotion it brought a lump to Zev's throat. "_Damn_ my clothes." With a total disregard for any guards or passing servants who may be watching, Philippe drew Zevran back towards him, kissing him gently, lovingly. As on other occasions with this man, the assassin felt a peculiar sensation of warmth and enjoyment that had nothing to do with desire. Oh, he wanted the man - wanted him quite desperately, after all these months of abstinence, in fact - but Philippe's kisses, these soft, caring caresses of mouth on mouth, promoted a sense of wellbeing that was entirely new to him.

It was with significant reluctance that he disengaged. "I must bathe, _caro mio_, and you must summon the King, no? He will want our news."

Philippe sighed. "You are right, _mon amour_. I shall see you later."

It was only after they had parted, each to their own errands, that Zevran realised that it hadn't even occurred to him to offer the customary playful request to come and wash his back, or some such. How strange.

_-oOo-_

They gathered in the library; Alistair and Maddy, Teagan, Philippe, Zevran, Anders, Leliana and Kallian. They lounged in chairs or sofas, perched on the deep windowsill, or propped up walls, according to their personal comfort.

It occurred to Alistair that over the months they had all grown immensely comfortable together; even Kallian was slowly losing some of her prickly coating. Teagan, of course, had only been told the parts of the story that were for the consumption of the nobles; poisoned lyrium, abused children, mage burnings. Nothing at all about Maddy and her mage-like abilities; the Arl, like everyone else, had been left to draw his own conclusions from the rumours which grew and multiplied with every passing day.

The room was filled with chatter and laughter; Maddy was shaking showers of straw out of Alistair's shirt cuffs and giggling with Kallian at the resultant mess. Neither he nor Teagan had stopped to change after their exertions. Leliana was doing a similar service to Teagan's braid, picking chaff out of the strands and rebraiding it. Alistair was thankful he'd always had short hair; Leliana's hair obsession was just… odd. Philippe was sprawled on the arm of Zevran's chair, conversing with him in low-voiced tones. It was strange to see his brother-in-law like this; he was usually very restrained about showing his affection for Zevran in public. Maker only knew what he saw in the elf. Only Anders seemed tense, obviously concerned about the information they were here to receive. Noticing this, the King decided it was time to get things moving.

"Zev, hey _Zev_… Maker's _Breath_, settle down, you noisy lot." When noise was reduced to whispers and rustling, he tried again. "Right, Zev, tell us what you discovered."

The assassin lounged at his leisure in a deep armchair, freshly washed and clothed, his hair still a little damp. He leaned slightly towards the side where Philippe was perched; Alistair wondered briefly whether he was even aware of it. Zevran's passions were a mystery to the King, they seemed so very shallow, and yet there had been nothing shallow about Zev's fury over Melissa. Alistair realised that he was musing, which seemed to happen more and more the longer he was away from Court, and pulled himself back to the conversation and words that Zevran was speaking.

"…some bottles from the chest, I checked one while I waited for my bath to be filled. It is poisoned as we suspected. The others I have left intact; the Chantry seal should stand as proof that I have not tampered with them."

"Won't the Knight Commander notice that the replacements aren't Chantry-sealed?" It was Teagan who asked the question.

Zevran tutted and smirked, emanating an aura of infuriating smugness. "What kind of amateur do you think I am? The replacements are Chantry-sealed also, acquired from Ser Bryant when we were back in Gwaren."

Anders chimed in with an explanation. "Rather than risk that Ser Bryant may have received any tainted ones, we swapped his lyrium allocation for some we'd checked ourselves, so we could be sure he remained sane." He nodded at Leliana. "We've done the same with all the Templars who have joined up."

This was what Alistair loved about working with this group; unlike a set of Palace guards and courtiers, they thought for themselves and got on with it.

Zevran picked the tale back up. "I went through all the paperwork in the office, naturally, but there was not much of interest. Rather a lot of trading in magical artefacts, though. Tell me, Alistair, do you regulate the export of such things?"

The King frowned in thought and then shrugged. "I couldn't tell you the law off the top of my head. It's the kind of thing that Eamon knows more about than I. I'm not aware of it being a big issue, to be honest, I thought we imported, more than anything else."

"We do." Anders was sat forward on his window perch, twisting his staff between his fingers. "How much and what kind of things are we talking about here, Zev?"

The assassin told him and Anders gaped in disbelief. "You're telling me that, not only are the Circle exporting armour, weapons and runes, but also _knickknacks_? They haven't got the resource for that; _no-one_ outside Tevinter has the resource for that."

Zevran spread his hands. "I can only tell you what I saw, my friend. I'm not even sure what the word 'knickknack' means; it's a Ferelden word I assume. Tell me, though; what kind of resource are you referring to?"

Well, lyrium for a start. The Chantry has a stranglehold on the market, but Orzammar retains the bulk of what they mine, and what they do sell is expensive. But also, manpower. The best crafters are all Tranquil, no-one's really sure why. It's something to do with the way their Fade connection is removed. Also, like dwarves, lyrium doesn't addle the wits of the Tranquil." Anders shifted uneasily. "What wits they have left, that is."

Alistair jumped in with a question. "Tell me, in crafting terms, how much difference is a ten percent cut of the Templars' lyrium going to make?"

Anders gaped at him. "Andraste's tits; of course! They've got buckets of extra lyrium right there. Maker's blood, that woman is devious. She's poisoning her Templars_ and_ gaining a chunk of extra craft goods at the same time."

Leliana's lilting voice also sounded impressed. "Once the first batch of goods are sold, there is lots of money to buy more lyrium from Orzammar, no? And so the cycle continues."

"One moment, though, _mes amis_. What about these Tranquil of which Anders speaks? Is the Circle working them day and night to make these things? They must still sleep, ___**n'est-ce pas**__**?"**_

Anders nodded agreement. "Yes, they're human, just not…" He abandoned that line of thought and turned from Philippe to Zev. "Did you make it into the Tranquil quarters?" The question caused a small crease to appear between Zevran's eyes.

"Well now, that is a good question. I definitely found their workrooms. When we discussed the layout, Anders, you told me that the Tranquil had their rooms beside their workshop, did you not?" At Anders' nod of confirmation, Zevran continued. "I saw no living quarters beside their workroom. That whole section of the first floor was devoted to workrooms and storage."

"What?" Then where were the Tranquil?"

Zev, shrugged. "How am I meant to tell one room full of sleeping bodies apart from another? They were not where you said, that is all I can be sure of."

"Oh, you can tell the difference." Anders' voice was grim. "The mages rooms have Templars in them, or at the very least, outside every door. They don't see the Tranquil as needing the same level of supervision."

"We can't be sure of that." Alistair's interjection was matter-of-fact. "I know for a fact that a lot of the rules were tightened after Uldred, and I'm betting that Cullen has changed them again. Not to mention that six mages high-tailed it to Orzammar. He'll be watching everyone after that."

"True." Anders frowned, dissatisfied. "Well, I guess we'll have to leave that for now. Maybe the mages in Orzammar can throw more light on it. What's worrying me…" he stopped, rolling his staff between his fingers, while everyone waited, watching him. He looked up at them, his good-humoured face rather haunted. "What's worrying me is that, if they are working the Tranquil to death, there's only _one_ way of replacing them."

"Maker's Breath!" The dismay in Alistair's tone was reflected in several faces. "You mean that he could be… to the mages?"

Zevran's cynical laughter cut through their horror. "My dear friend Alistair, always your innocence betrays you into thinking too small." He turned in his chair to face the mage; harsh, vicious amusement in his face. "Tell me, Anders: does one have to be a mage, in order to be made Tranquil?"

All across the room there were gasps and indrawn breaths. Every eye turned to Anders, waiting on the answer. The mage stared at the assassin; his gaze turned inward, thinking. In the end, he shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, "possibly not. We all have a connection to the Fade and that's what they cut. Only the First Enchanter, the Knight Commander, and a few immediate subordinates are taught the method of making someone Tranquil, however. Without knowing the process, I can't really hazard a guess."

"I saw it once, when I was in Templar training." Alistair's voice was quiet, but anger throbbed under the surface. "It's a magical branding iron, infused with lyrium. It's not hot, it doesn't sear the skin. The brand sinks into the mage's forehead and then he… changes. I have no idea how it's prepared, though." He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully across the back of Maddy's hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost unnaturally calm. "If I find that the Chantry has been enslaving my subjects, then I'm struggling to think of an execution worthy of them."

"They've been enslaving your _subjects_ for centuries, Alistair. But mages don't count, right?" Bitterness carved a yawning chasm in Anders' words, but again Zevran cut across it with a depth of cynicism that made it seem like a shallow ditch.

"Ho, you think they would have to take slaves, Alistair? You foresee forlorn little columns of them, yes? Shuffling along to the Circle Tower in chains?" He made a noise of utter contempt. "There are many who will give themselves to this fate. What are a man's hopes and dreams worth if he starves? He will cheerfully exchange them for good food, a warm bed and steady work."

"Plenty of people in the Alienages would." Kallian's interjection was unusual enough to turn heads, and the colour rose in her face under such unwelcome scrutiny. "Well, they would," she insisted, roughly, "and who'd care enough to stop it?"

"I really don't think the Chantry would do this." Leliana had been quiet, listening, but now her voice rang with sincerity. When both Anders and Zev rolled their eyes at her, she shook her head at them severely. "No, they would not. It undermines how they are perceived, don't you see? Perhaps they could open workhouses in the cities and do this thing, and it would be accepted. The nobility might even approve." Alistair frowned direfully at this, but Teagan looked thoughtful. "But not to take commoners and house them in the Circle; it muddies the waters too much, throws too much doubt on how they treat mages."

Teagan cleared his throat, clearly reluctant to interrupt this group, the King's inner circle. "If I may say so, there's no advantage to pursuing this any further, right now. It's all conjecture. The only facts are that the Tranquil workroom is bigger, they are producing more goods, and the Tranquil themselves appear to have been relocated to other rooms." He turned to Zevran, and a note of appeal entered his voice. "Did you get into the Apprentice quarters? Are the children well-treated?"

Zevran spread his hands, helplessly. "The ground floor was crawling with Templars. The untrained are considered the greatest threat, no? I made it through the library, which was quite empty, and to the first bend of the part of the Circle where the apprentices were housed, but I could go no further." He considered Teagan's question for a moment and his eyes went flat with some thought to which they were not privy. "I can tell you this – I heard the usual cries and snuffles, the unhappiness of children in such places. I heard nothing that I would associate with… harsher training."

Teagan looked as though he wasn't sure what to do with this assessment, and Alistair felt for him, knowing that his nephew was in there. "Hopefully, I'll have more news for you when I get to Orzammar, Teagan. The mages there will be able to clarify a lot of this." He sighed, "I was hoping to have Eamon meet me at Orzammar. Bhelen is cleverer than I am, and I need Eamon's subtle mind if I want to cut a good deal with the dwarves. Unfortunately, I got his letter this morning; Loopy Leanna has declared another mage-burning next week, so Eamon has to stay in Denerim to stop it. He's not sure he can then make it to Orzammar in time."

"I got a letter too, this morning." Anders stood and stretched, his face weary. "Leonie is meeting us at Orzammar. Apparently, Bhelen wrote to her, saying that he wants to discuss reclaiming the thaigs."

"I'm at your disposal, if I may be of assistance, Alistair."

Alistair smiled, acknowledging Teagan's courteous offer. "Thank you, Teagan. You'd be very welcome. But you know, and I know, that Eamon can think circles around the pair of us, and so can Bhelen."

"I do not see this at all." Stubborn pride resonated in Maddy's voice. "You are capable of anything, _mon mari_. Have we not seen that already? Particularly when you have all these wonderful friends to assist you."

Alistair's heart swelled, hearing her say so, but what made him blink, astonished, and swallow a sudden lump in his throat, was the murmur of assent that went around the room.

_Maker's breath, they believe in me_.

It was a truly terrifying thought.

_-oOo-_


	41. Chapter 41

_-oOo-_

Leaving Redcliffe was a wrench; the trip up into the Frostback Mountains would take almost three weeks, depending on how much ground they managed to cover. After several days of soft beds and excellent food, even the most luxurious form of camping held little appeal.

Although it was now the beginning of Harvestmere, the weather remained mild, albeit somewhat wetter. The nights were growing chillier; furs made a welcome addition to the camp beds, and everyone was glad of the braziers set up in the corner of the large tents.

"And at the end of it, the biggest stone tomb in Thedas," said Anders, digging an uncharacteristically gloomy spoon into his dinner at the end of their first night on the road.

"Oh, but Orzammar is a marvel," exclaimed Leliana, blue eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Anyone who gets to go there is uncommonly fortunate, no?"

The mage, resisting her enthusiasm, was heard to mutter something around his food that sounded like… _fine_, _then _you_ can go die there_, and it was left to Teagan, not yet as road-weary as the rest, to ask her to describe the wonders of a city he'd not yet seen.

While Leliana extolled the virtues of vast, vaulted stone ceilings and priceless carvings of the dwarven ancestors, Maddy - curled in her favourite spot against Alistair's chest - frowned and tugged on his shirt. "_Mon mari_, what does Anders mean? Who is going to die in Orzammar? We shall be safe there, ___n'est-ce pas_?"

Her husband stiffened and she felt his breath hitch. Anders caught the question and his jaw dropped. His gaze flickered from Alistair to Maddy and back again. "You haven't…?"

"No." The flat tone of the monosyllable made Maddy sit up, her frown moving from puzzled to worried, as she searched Alistair's face. What she saw there did nothing to reassure her.

"What is it? Is it bad? Tell me, quick."

"I- It's-" Alistair stood abruptly, setting her on her feet. He retained her hand, engulfed in his large one. "I think we'd better talk privately," he said gently, and again she studied him, seeing such sadness in his face it broke her heart. Maddy set her jaw and nodded, and he led her into the Royal pavilion.

By the fire, Anders cursed long, low and extremely fluently.

_-oOo-_

Cullen cracked open the little bottle and swallowed down his allocation of lyrium gratefully, long accustomed to the oily texture and somewhat bitter tang. Everything always seemed clearer, more certain, after he'd taken it. As though it enhanced not only his Templar abilities, but also his understanding of Andraste's divine will.

For this reason, he had resolved to change his routine this morning, and immediately left his office, turning his footsteps towards a particular room, one which he had been in the habit of visiting every evening. His actions, or rather his inaction, lay heavy on his conscience; perhaps with lyrium - one of the Maker's own blessings to mankind - fizzing through his veins, he would finally be able to bring himself to do his duty.

At his nod, the guards outside unlocked the door for him, saluting as he passed through. Inside, he stood and stared at the single occupant, who lay in the bed, oblivious to his regard.

"_Congratulations, Ser Cullen, I am promoting you to Knight Commander_."

"_Thank you, your Eminence, I shall endeavour to live up to the faith you have shown in me_."

"_I place not my faith in men, Knight Commander, but in the will of divine Andraste. We are but the tools of that will. Those who seek to thwart her will, those who do not accept that the vile taint of magic should be brought to serve man as she ordained, must be eliminated. You know your duty."_

"_Yes, Your Eminence. I shall not fail you."_

His failure lay in the bed before him, heavily drugged. Every day Cullen came here, intending to give the order, and every day he fell short of the trust the Grand Cleric had placed in him. He looked at the First Enchanter's lined face and grey hair, spread on the pillow and all he could see was Greagoir. The previous Knight Commander had spent every day of his adult life locked in a constant battle with this man. Surely that, more than anything, should inspire him to do his duty, to remove the man, the _mage_, who had blocked the Chantry at every turn, who had surely made Greagoir's life a misery with his constant defence of his inferiors.

But there was no doubt in his mind: the other mages _were_ inferior to Irving; this was why the First Enchanter still lived. Only two people in the entire Circle had withstood the insidious barrage of filth and degradation which Uldred had utilised in order to enslave mages and Templars alike; Irving, and himself. The others had all either succumbed or fled. Cullen could never forget that.

Here lay a man who had genuinely mastered his magic, and the Knight Commander wished with all his heart that the First Enchanter could be brought to understand the importance of the work being undertaken here. To be able to pass on such mastery to those who proved they merited it - that would truly be magic in service to Andraste.

When Cullen had first been freed from Uldred's clutches, the knowledge, the understanding, had burned brightly within him: mages were just too dangerous; they couldn't be trusted. They should all be offered the mercy of Tranquillity and, if they refused, then they must die, for the safety of all.

The Grand Cleric's vision had tempered his certainty with mercy. Even a mage may be saved, she had assured him. If we take their young minds and mould them, just as we mould our initiates in the monasteries, then the discipline they learn will armour them against the wiles of demons, and the pure flame of their faith in Andraste will provide them with a weapon with which they may smite their abominable tormentors.

Cullen had protested. What was the point of taking the risk? Surely it was safer just to eliminate the danger of magic totally. Leanna had smiled, and the crystalline certainty of her vision had overwhelmed him. Only mages may walk wakeful in the Fade, she had said. Only mages may destroy the demons that inhabit that twisted realm. Only mages, an army of mages, armed and armoured with the faith and discipline of Templars, may clear the way, cleanse the Black City and bring us back into the favour of the Maker.

This was the message of Andraste, in its deepest form. Magic is meant to serve man; only mages fit for a life of servitude equal to that of their Templar protectors may redeem their magic. For those not capable of such a lofty calling, the Maker had provided another way to serve, had he not?

We shall not see it in our lifetime, she had told him. We can only pave the way, set the first young feet on the path to righteousness and aid them when they stumble. But first, those who cleave to the old ways - who lock mages away without offering them the tools they need in order to purify their taint – must be eliminated.

Naturally, apostasy and blood magic must be stamped out; they were heresies and should be treated as such. The mercy of the Rite could not be offered to them; in this the Grand Cleric had been saddened, but determined. Cleansing fire would return their souls to Andraste, and the common folk would be reassured, knowing that the Chantry protected them from the terrible risk of abominations walking free in the world.

With her words blazing in his mind and lyrium burning in his blood, the Knight Commander knew his duty. The old mage would never adapt to the new regime, would be unable to accept the brutal necessities required to implement the long-term plan. Still he hesitated, wondering if anything could yet be salvaged. Perhaps Irving's deplorable lack of understanding was merely an emotional reaction, an ingrained distaste for change? Having the First Enchanter killed did not sit comfortably with Cullen, even now. This was no apostate, flaunting free magic with a total disregard for the risks to the populace.

Abruptly, he turned to the door, the decision that had been haunting him for months finally made. To one of the Templar guards outside, he gave the instruction: "Have everything necessary for the Rite brought to this room."

"Yes, Knight Commander."

_-oOo-_

The guard captain was watching some of his men practice when Kallian found him, his quick, sharp eyes flicking between pairs, watching for persistent errors that needed correcting. Hearing her approach, he turned and grinned at her.

"Hello, lass. Come to show my boys how it's done?"

She wanted to say yes, to grab a couple of practice daggers and be comfortable, but that wasn't why she was here.

"Um, maybe in a bit. I, er, have something I have to say to you." Damn it, she hated this. Talking wasn't her strong point at the best of times, and _this_…

"Oh?" She had Cedric's full attention now and squirmed under his gaze. "Whatever it is, you don't look best pleased about it."

"Actually, I… suppose I am. It's just…" Kallian huffed, exasperated with herself. "Andraste's Knickers, why did Shianni get all the gift of the gab in our family? What I'm trying to say is… thanks." She risked a straight look at him, and the uncomplicated kindness in his blue eyes helped to settle her down. "For coming to visit me in jail. For… giving a shit."

_For caring that I was cold and hurt and hungry; for offering comfort with no expectations._ The rough hug and kiss he'd given her had been the first time she'd allowed a human man to touch her since… then. Well, apart from Anders' impersonal healing touch. _That_ conversation would have to happen, too. She owed quite a few people thanks. "I just wanted to tell you, that's all. That I appreciated it."

"You're welcome, lass." His eyes crinkled. "Or should I say, you're welcome, ser knight."

"_No_." She scowled, embarrassed. "It's so stupid. They only did it to save me. It's not that I'm not grateful but… it just feels wrong. I'm not a knight."

Cedric waved to his men to take a break and they gratefully went to get water. "What makes you think that's the only reason? I won't deny that's probably why they did it there and then, but I reckon the King would have done it sooner or later. You're in service to the Crown, lass. The Queen's safety is in your hands."

"So are you," she shot back. "If it's not just to save me, why aren't you a knight?"

"Ah." Ced looked a bit sheepish. "Well, there's a reason for that." He cast a wary eye over her. "How many knives are you carrying?"

"A few." Kallian didn't like where this was going. "Why?"

"Well, it's like this." Cedric ran a hand over his raspy chin and gave her a rueful look. "Don't cut me… but… I'm sort of… noble born." At her accusing glare he raised his hands defensively. "It's not my fault. I'm the younger son of a Bann, and a poor one at that. I'm nothing special."

"_You_ are a noble?" _Why do people keep turning the world upside down? Isn't life hard enough?_ "But you're _normal_. You _work_ for a living."

"Yes, and?" He was grinning now, as though she'd said something funny. "Plenty of younger sons go into the military or the Chantry. I was damned lucky to catch the King's eye and land such a good position."

Kallian chewed her lip. Every time she thought she'd learnt something about the world and got a grip on her life, something new shook things up again. She'd let this man hug her, she'd trusted him, and it turned out that he was a noble, a _shem noble_. Some days, it just felt like the Maker was laughing at her.

_-oOo-_

"Your Eminence, it is not my wish to see a rift between the Chantry and the Crown, but my instructions come directly from King Alistair. He will not permit the Chantry to perpetrate atrocities upon his subjects - upon _any_ of his subjects."

"These are not his subjects, Your Grace, they are apostates and maleficarum. Their fate is a matter for the Chantry, not the Crown."

Eamon regarded the Grand Cleric thoughtfully. It appeared they had reached a stalemate for now. Alistair's instruction had been to wait for the day of the executions, to send in troops to surround the area and remove the prisoners, while the Templars were unprepared. This would have sent a message to the mob as well as the Chantry.

The King's Chancellor had no wish to tip his hand so thoroughly. However, given Alistair's increasingly angry letters on the subject, he had decided that some show of arms was going to be necessary. To offer the Grand Cleric too much opportunity to act would leave the mages with neither hands nor tongues, and Alistair had made it quite clear that this was not acceptable to him. Therefore, in order to utilise the element of surprise, the Arl had turned up at the Denerim Cathedral with a unit of troops, to take the prisoners into custody in the name of the King.

It seemed, however, that the Grand Cleric was as tenacious as she was arrogant; the wishes of the Crown moved her not at all, and Eamon had no desire to make open war against her Templars at this time. _Try another tack_.

"Madam," he began, deliberately deflating her title in the hope of pricking her arrogance, "as the Arl of Denerim I am informing you of this, as an absolute fact. You may_ not_ perform public executions in my city, or the surrounding environs, without my permission. To have done so once was rude; to do so again would be inexcusable."

Mentally, he did a fast rundown of the other options available to her. Amaranthine was out; Leonie had been breathing fire over the last executions, particularly because they contained a viable Warden recruit. Eamon wasn't sure of Bryland's stance, but the Teyrn had deposited those Templars in Fort Drakon without a murmur, and anyway Gwaren was a long way off the beaten track. Highever was a possibility; he would have to write to Fergus and inform him that the King had strong views on the subject.

From the calculating look in Leanna's eyes, it seemed she was working down a list of her own. The glare she then gave him suggested she'd come to a similar conclusion. While he had the upper hand, Eamon pressed a little harder. "Furthermore, I need your assurance that your prisoners will remain whole and well. Need I remind you that we hold four of your Templars in Fort Drakon on a charge of treason? I can assure you that _they_ are currently healthy and well-treated." Eamon paused a second and dug in the knife. "We have even made accommodation for their deplorable addiction." He refrained from informing her that, after some days consuming doses of un-tainted lyrium, reports from their jailers said that all four men were bemused and horrified to realise that they had actually attacked the King.

Various thoughts and emotions flickered across her face, too fast for him to track. The result appeared satisfactory to her, much to his disquiet. The Arl was fast coming around to Alistair's view of the Grand Cleric: she was unbalanced, at the very least. This was very bad news for Ferelden, and he could only hope that their request for a replacement met with a favourable response from the Divine.

"Very well, Arl Eamon; I grant that you have the right to decide what occurs within your city. I will not publically execute apostates or maleficarum on your land. As a gesture of goodwill between Chantry and Crown I also promise that, in the event that such prisoners are released, they will not have been mutilated."

_She'll have them disposed of, so that promise is valueless. _Although he knew Alistair would not be satisfied, Eamon was reasonably happy with this solution. The Chantry had been quietly killing mages for centuries; at least now, she would not be using their executions to incite the mob, which was the important thing, in his view. He nodded agreement, swallowing his resentment when she smirked triumphantly.

_-oOo-_

"You are a tease, _mio principe_. The way you blow hot and cold is becoming wearisome." There was no accusation in the assassin's smooth, honeyed voice. This was merely a statement of fact.

Philippe, sitting cross-legged by the deserted fire with his head resting against Zev's leg, could not deny that his love had a point. Everything had become so complicated and it was a tangle he couldn't seem to unwind. He answered without turning his head, not wishing to destroy what little comfort they had right now. "You are right, _mon amour_, please forgive me."

The deft fingers stroking his hair stilled at his words, and moved to grasp his chin, forcing him to turn and look up into Zev's face. The calm acceptance in the Antivan's eyes and voice was a wonder in itself. "There is nothing to forgive, _caro mio_, you do as you must. However, I had thought I finally understood why you refuse me, only to have you behave differently when I returned from Lake Calenhad, offering kisses and caresses more freely, and yet, nothing more. So now, once again, I confess I am confused by the signals you send."

Philippe sighed and dipped his head to kiss the fingers that cupped his chin. "Then that makes two of us. I wish I had understanding to share, but nothing makes sense at the moment. When you were away at the Circle, I… feared for you. I realised then why you grasp at what you can." He stirred restlessly and Zev released him, smoothly easing him back into his previous position. "Everything is at war within me – Celene's intentions, my feelings for you, my morals and standards." Hands massaged his scalp, easing tension. "I am grasping at what I can, my Zevran, although I know it is not as much as you want. I will understand perfectly if you wish me to stop."

Zevran's low chuckle sounded from above him, and the dexterous hands moved to his nape, kneading and stroking. "Have I asked you to? But you should know this, _tesoro mio_." His hands swept from the nape to wrap around Philippe's chest, and the assassin's mouth hovered next to his ear. "Only respect for you, and for your wishes, prevents me from carrying you off to my tent right now and keeping you there until morning... and my patience is not infinite." The mix of desire and menace in the soft, accented voice sent shivers down Philippe's spine. The next moment, fingers once again stroked his nape as though nothing had occurred. Philippe closed his eyes and dug his fingers in the grass below him, fighting the urge to just give in, to allow himself to be swept along by his lover's passion and certainty.

_-oOo-_


	42. Chapter 42

_-oOo-_

Alistair woke with a start from a hideous nightmare and groaned, throwing his arm across his eyes. It had made perfect sense at the time, but now all he could remember was trying to swim in full plate across a lake of lyrium, in order to convince Bhelen he was fit to take it home with him. Everything that had led to such a ludicrous point was a fuzzy blur.

_Maker's breath, I'll be glad when this is over_. Today would be their last day on the road; in a few hours they would reach the gates of Orzammar. Down in those lava-lit depths he would have to negotiate with possibly the slyest mind in Thedas, while the darkspawn in the tunnels below him scratched and clawed at his blood and his brain.

If he could win the lyrium trade, it would change everything. In fact, it would change so much, he wasn't even sure exactly what the consequences would be. The Chantry had held the charter so long… Would he be negotiating just for the local lyrium? Or would he be forced to negotiate for all of it, Thedas-wide? The latter made Alistair break out in a cold sweat; he had no idea how the Divine in Val Royeaux, or the monarchs of the other nations, would react to finding the entire lyrium trade in the hands of Ferelden, or even how he could afford to take it on without bankrupting his nation. But he might not have a choice; the dwarves took their charters very seriously indeed, but also held the details close to their chests. Until he reached the Shaperate, he would not have any opportunity to read the existing charter.

Maddy stirred, shifting in her sleep to face him. Dim light filtered through the pale fabric of the tent wall behind their bed, allowing him to see her face as a pale blur on the pillow. Dawn was breaking later and later every day; three weeks on the road had seen them through the remainder of Harvestmere. In a few days it would be Firstfall; up here in the mountains there had been snow already and the bed was piled with furs. The contrast between their current camping quarters, and the last time he was here, bemused Alistair. He and Mel had clung together fully dressed in a tiny tent, with both their sleeping pads stacked beneath them in an attempt to stop the creeping cold striking up from the ground, and their blankets and cloaks tucked tight around them.

Beneath the furs, Maddy's skin was warm and soft as he slipped an arm around her thickening waist, making her murmur a little fretfully. The mound of her belly was still only slight, but there was no doubt that she was gaining weight. Thankfully, she was no longer nauseated by breakfast, and was eating well. The one good thing about visiting Orzammar was that the dwarves had a massive respect for pregnancy, it being comparatively rare among their folk, and would no doubt pamper the human Queen to death. This was not a huge advantage compared to all the bad things about visiting Orzammar; not least of which was likely to be Maddy's reaction to the place, given Anders' slip-up a few weeks back and the subsequent conversation.

She hadn't been terribly happy with her husband. In fact, she'd been absolutely livid. She seemed to feel that, seeing as he took the time to tell her that they might not have children before he'd proposed marriage, he should also have added this little morsel to the list – he was almost certainly not going to live beyond fifty.

"_Would it have made a difference?_" he'd asked her.

"_Of course not, mon mari_," she'd said. "_That's not the point_."

There had been nothing Alistair could do except weather the storm; letting her run the gamut of emotion from furious, through tearful and finally to resigned, before offering his tentative apologies. He remembered how angry he'd been when Duncan told him, and knew he was an idiot for leaving it to chance as to when she found out. Since then, however, any mention of Orzammar caused a rather curious expression to cross Maddy's pointed little face. It was an expression that made her adoring, but suspicious, husband rather nervous. He knew all too well what she was like when she got a notion in her head, and felt that his unease was well-founded. Unfortunately, given the precarious nature of their truce on the subject, he didn't feel equipped to investigate the matter, merely resolving to keep a close eye on her during their visit to the dwarven city.

_-oOo-_

"_Atrast vala_, King Alistair Theirin. Welcome to Orzammar."

The royal party trailed through the Commons, trying not to gawk around them too much. The four who, at one time or another, had been here before - Alistair, Leliana, Anders and Zevran – were relatively blasé about the whole thing, but for the rest the inordinately high ceilings, the oppressive heat, the ornate architecture and the alien smells was causing sensory overload.

"Your servants arrived earlier, King Alistair, and have been installed in a guest wing of the Royal Palace awaiting your arrival."

Alistair remembered their guide, Vartag Gavorn, as Bhelen's right-hand man and, if memory served correctly, a dodgy, vicious little git. Bhelen himself was a thug cut from noble cloth, albeit a thug with a mind like a steel trap, and to this day Alistair had never understood why Melissa had chosen to back him. Or rather, what he'd really failed to understand was why, if she thought Bhelen would make a good king, she would also think that _he_ could make a good king. Bhelen and Anora were as alike as two peas in a pod, in Alistair's view.

After the crush and press of the Commons, held back by the Commons guards to allow their passage, the Diamond quarter felt almost as though fresh air blew through it. Almost. They passed quickly through the quarter to the Royal palace, and were speedily installed in a luxurious wing where Vartag assured them that they would enjoy total privacy. Alistair placed about as much value in that assurance as he would have in one from Celene, and instantly resolved to have Leliana and Zevran sweep the place even more thoroughly than usual for listening posts and viewpoints.

"King Bhelen is holding a feast in your honour this evening, King Alistair. Tomorrow, there will be a Grand Proving, where our finest warriors will demonstrate their skill at arms."

"I look forward to it." Alistair smiled down into eyes as black and cold as a snake's, doing his best to appear harmless and stupid. _Nothing difficult about the latter, Alistair_. "In the meantime, I'd like to spend some time in the Shaperate, if I may? Perhaps the Shaper of Memories can help ensure that I don't blunder badly in matters of etiquette."

"Of course, King Alistair, you are free to move around as you wish. Although I'd keep well away from Dust Town if I were you, and of course straying outside the city limits is forbidden to anyone but an assigned patrol. For your own protection, you understand, although as a Grey Warden I don't doubt your skill."

"Oh, I have no desire to wander into the Deep Roads, I can assure you."

Vartag bowed stiffly and made to depart, only to be waylaid by Anders. When the dwarf finally left, the mage returned to flop into a chair in the sitting room that adjoined several of the bedrooms. "The mages are housed in the old Aeducan estate, wherever that is." Anders put down Pounce, who stalked off to sniff suspiciously at key points of their new environment. "He _said_ that two of them are out with patrols at the moment, but if we want to see the rest, tell a guard and they'll go collect them."

"Out with _patrols_?" The last thing Alistair had expected was to find that the Circle mages were venturing into the Deep Roads.

"Apparently so." Anders grinned cheerfully. "The Commander will be pleased. Any mages who have darkspawn experience will find themselves recruited in an eyeblink, if I know Leonie."

"Is she here yet?"

"Do you know; I forgot to ask. I was far too interested in the hereabouts of our Circle renegades to think about it." Anders winked. "Don't tell the Commander I forgot about her; she'll be heartbroken, I imagine."

_-oOo-_

He drew a hard-edged shape in charcoal on a scrap of paper. "If you carve out a socket shaped like this, then it's possible it will accept such a rune." Torrin, not so long ago Senior Enchanter of the Circle, scratched his beard, frowning at the design. "Maybe the top line needs to be at a steeper angle… what do you think, Janar?"

The dwarven smith regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, and his lips quirked ruefully. "By all the sodding Ancestors, do you have any idea how difficult it will be to imbue that design into Volcanic Aurum? If I do this, you'd better be able to get the rune working, that's all I can say."

"I hope I can, too." The mage's face was alight with speculation and interest. "The _theory_ is sound, but the delicacy required…" he shook his head, blown away by the possibilities, "…certainly without the specialised cutting tools you've made for me, I would stand no chance of success."

"Hmm well, best get to it then, eh?" The burly smith clapped the taller man on the back. "No point standing looking at the pretty picture all day."

Time passed, punctuated by the hammer and scrape of tools on metal, and the occasional flare of lyrium-enhanced magic. Throughout the Smith's Quarter, they could hear the harsh music that formed the basis of the craft; the pummeling and shaping of raw materials into armour and weapons that existed in the mind of the artisan. Occasionally, there were the rumbling curses or full-throated roar of thwarted genius.

The abrupt entry into the workroom of a third figure caused both men to look up from their work, one indifferently and one with a smile. "Patrols are back, I see," grunted Janar and returned to his work.

Torrin carefully placed the beautifully smooth and sharp rune-scalpel back in its case before turning his full attention to the newcomer. When he stood and held out his arms, Petra slipped into them like an impossible miracle. "Is all well?" he asked, his anxiety smoothing away only once she had nodded. On one of the first patrols they had lost one of their number, Mackis, through a stupid error; the dwarves had no idea how to protect a mage in combat and, at that point, the mages had no combat sense. He had been overrun by hurlocks while trying to lay down a paralysis rune. After this, the Aeducan Deep Roads Commander had wasted no time in providing some strict tactical controls to protect their precious new resource.

"Have you heard?" she asked. "It's the talk of the commons; King Alistair is here, with some of the Blight heroes and a Grey Warden. The Queen and her brother too, I hear."

"Oh." Torrin chewed the edge of his moustache, glancing to where his workbench contained a litter of papers, lyrium and half-completed runes.

Petra appeared to have no difficulty interpreting this monosyllable. She hugged him, a little clumsy in her mixture of robes and bits of armour. "Don't worry, love. We're not going back. He can't make us." She showed her teeth in a fierce grin, her expression unlike anything he had ever seen her wear back in the confines in the Circle. "I _will not_ let them touch you."

_-oOo-_

Rather than summon the mages to the palace, Anders and Alistair decided to go over informally to see them, sending a runner ahead to give some warning. Teagan, still very worried about Connor's fate, asked to accompany them, so in the end all three men went, taking with them a couple of King's Own and a dwarven guide.

The Aeducan estate turned out to be semi-inhabited, and their guide explained the set-up with disarming dwarven bluntness. The King lived in the palace with his concubine Rica, and their son, Endrin. Family members, both the Aeducans, and Rica's Brosca relatives, were split between the two residences, depending on their position in the King's favour. Rica's mother had been relegated to the Aeducan estate not long ago, their outspoken guide told them, which pleased the guard, as her drinking wasn't a problem, but her running around the palace drunk and half-clothed in the middle of the night pissed everyone off.

This delightful anecdote surprised a snort from one of the King's Own, and thus it was with smiles on all their faces that they first entered the portion of the estate given over to the mages. Their relaxed manner was met with a beam of relief from the pretty dwarven girl who came to meet them.

"Hi! Oh, I mean, um, greetings, Your Majesty." She looked doubtfully from Teagan to Alistair, who obligingly stepped forward to shake her hand. She grinned up at him. "I'm Dagna. Hey, I know you, don't I? I'm sure I've seen you before." Her frankness and open face were extremely engaging, and all three men warmed to it immediately.

"It's possible; I was in Orzammar during the Blight." Alistair released her hand, a slight crease between his eyes. "Dagna? So, you're the dwarf that Cullen says helped the mages to escape?" His brow cleared and he snapped his fingers. "I remember; Melissa & Wynne got you into the Circle in the first place."

"You were with the Warden?" Dagna cocked her head, regarding him, and then shook it. "If you say so. In all honesty, there were a lot of tall folks in metal. I know your face, though." She shrugged. "Maybe it's just from the coins."

Anders sputtered, finally unable to hold back a laugh that had been bubbling up during this conversation. Alistair turned, grinning. "Dagna, this is Warden Anders," he paused while the mage took her hand and kissed it with a quite unnecessary flourish, "and this is Arl Teagan of Redcliffe." The Arl's courtly manners were considerably less florid than Anders', but both of them contrasted somewhat oddly with the King's homely handshake. "Dagna, before we go in to speak to the others, can you tell us what's actually happening at the Circle?"

She led them to a room with chairs and sofas and offered them seats. The guide withdrew, leaving the King's Own to guard the door of the sitting room. "Well, I don't know what it's like now; but it was pretty bad before I left." The merry twinkle in her eyes had faded, leaving them serious. "It started after the First Enchanter vanished; we heard he was ill, but no-one saw him, or no-one who'd tell us anything, anyway." She paused; all three men had their attention fixed on her. "A few days later, there was a commotion in the night. Next morning, Gita, Fernum and Vera were all missing. Rumours were flying around, and then there was an official statement - that their weakness had allowed a demon to break through and they had been made Tranquil for everyone's protection."

Alistair cocked an enquiring look at Anders, who shook his head, frowning. "I don't know any of them well, but Vera was a strong mage, as I recall. I doubt any of them would screw up that badly." The look he gave Alistair spoke volumes. "I know that at least two of them were Libertarians, though. They were some of the few to survive Uldred's messy end."

"Uh-huh. " Dagna nodded confirmation. "They were all Libertarians, although I didn't make that connection at first."

"Hang on, though. These are Harrowed mages." Anders looked like all his worst nightmares just came true. "You can't make a Harrowed mage Tranquil; it's against the rules! If it wasn't, I swear Irving would have done it to me _years_ ago."

"That's what I thought, too. I spent _so _much time looking in the library for that rule… and all the time, more people were going missing." Dagna looked sad; a small forlorn figure, forced to take too much upon her shoulders. "I should have given it up earlier, but I was sure it existed. In the end I decided it must be a tradition, rather than a rule, because I couldn't find it."

"More people were going missing?" Alistair focussed on the one important sentence in the middle of Dagna's tumbled words.

A shade of defensiveness, of guilt, crossed her face. "You've gotta understand that nothing happened quickly. Days would pass and then one person would be missing. Most of the mages couldn't keep up with what was happening. People were regularly moved into different rooms; it meant that empty beds didn't set off alarms in people's heads. You never saw everyone together, the new rotas saw to that. Eating rotas, library rotas, teaching rotas, no-one was given a chance to put it all together until it was too late."

Alistair said, "Put what together?" at almost the exact same time that Anders said, ominously, "How many are left?" They exchanged worried glances before turning back to Dagna.

The dwarven girl's gaze flickered between their equally forbidding expressions and she swallowed nervously. "When we left… I'm pretty sure there were no Libertarians left at all. It's harder to say with the Equitarians, not everyone has a declared loyalty, and most of the undeclared ones are Equitarian I guess, it's a default position for a mage, I think." Under their waiting stares, she faltered, "I… don't know, really I don't. You don't know what it was like; the Loyalists watched everyone so closely. I had freedoms no-one else did, but even so I had to guess at a lot of people's loyalties. I took a real chance getting out those I did; if _any_ of them had turned out to be a hidden Loyalist, the Templars would have been waiting in the storerooms for us." Her gaze was haunted. "A lot of mages were made Tranquil, not many remained; that's all I know for sure."

"And the children?" Teagan burst in on the conversation impatiently, "What about the children?"

"The apprentices?" Dagna twisted her stubby fingers, agitated. "A lot of the older ones were declared unsuitable for Harrowing, some we heard had failed their Harrowings. They were made Tranquil. The rest learnt to comply with the new regime. They, and all the younger ones, were put into a new schedule, to 'teach them discipline'. First bell rings really early in the morning; they have prayers every few hours, meditations, lessons in history and philosophy. The trusted Loyalists were the only ones conducting lessons at the end; it was all about control and restraint. I heard a rumour, a conversation between Templars, that when they were older, the suitable ones would be taught 'holy command', whatever that means."

"It sounds just like the monastery, apart from the lack of weapons practice." Alistair scrubbed his hair with his hand, an unconscious gesture he used when thinking. "Holy command? That's what they used to call our lessons in Templar abilities, back when I was in training. Can mages even do that?"

"Why not?" Only a hint of Anders' usual bitterness was visible, swamped under muffling despair at the tale he had just absorbed. "I always said it was magic, for all the Chantry wraps it up in clean linen. Why they'd teach it to mages – ones who will be just as indoctrinated as the Templars – _that's_ the real question, isn't it?"

_-oOo-_


	43. Chapter 43

_-oOo-_

Alistair had to ask Dagna to give them a few minutes alone before she took them in to see the mages. In the light of her revelations, Anders was not fit to be seen; he was certainly not fit to interact with other mages. Magic was leaking from him, sparking from his fingers and filling the air around him. The short hairs at Alistair's nape were lifting with it and the taste of sherbet, destruction magic, fizzled on his tongue.

"They did it. They. Finally. Fucking. Did it." The dull anger and despair in Anders' voice was matched by the rolling wave of power that came from him. Alistair waved a very worried-looking Teagan away to safety and stepped into the centre of the little maelstrom. Tears were pouring down Anders' face, while his cat - held tightly in his arms - appeared twice the size it should due to static charge. The mage hadn't left his chair, hadn't moved a muscle since Dagna left; Alistair wasn't even sure that he was fully aware of his surroundings.

There was only one thing to be done, but carefully. Alarming Anders in this mood would be very, very bad. Alistair squatted next to his chair and closed his eyes. Trying to ignore the undirected power swirling around him, he very gently pushed out with his own power. Only in that moment did he realise how rusty he was, how rarely he practiced Templar disciplines anymore. Compared to the unleashed fury of a mage as strong as Anders, he felt like an amateur, but that might not be a bad thing right now; a strong blast of cleansing could well prompt unbridled hostility that Alistair really didn't want to face from his friend.

"Anders, let me help." He kept the words gentle, undemanding, while pushing out a little more power. The charged atmosphere around the mage diminished a shade, but it was Pounce, struggling to be free, who brought Anders back enough to blink away his tears and recognise what was happening. He released the frightened cat and offered his hands to Alistair. When the Templar-trained warrior took them, the mage nodded permission and allowed cleansing energy to flow over him, clearing the air of random energy and dispelling the effects of his loss of control.

Other than smite his friend, which was an absolute last resort, all Alistair could do was continue to gently cleanse, giving the mage time to recover in safety. Anders was clinging to his hands like a lifeline, taking deep breaths and regaining command of himself in slow increments. It was an eye-opener for Alistair; an opportunity to see both why people feared mages, and how much a Templar could help a mage if they trusted each other. The germ of an idea tickled the back of his mind, but he had no spare attention to give to it.

The taste of sherbet faded, as Anders became himself again. His death-grip on Alistair's fingers loosened and then disengaged. Pounce padded back across the floor to his master and mewed in an enquiring kind of way. The mage drew a shaky breath and picked up his cat; he looked up at Alistair, bloody murder in his eyes, which was significantly better than the alternative.

"We have to go back there; we have to _stop_ this."

Alistair huffed an exasperated breath. _When did I become the sensible one?_ He marshalled his thoughts before responding, really needing to have _all_ of his team behind him right now. "Anders, if we want to stop this, really stop this, then we are in the correct place right now. You know that; _we discussed it_, remember?" He couldn't come straight out and say that their plan hinged on the lyrium trade. The Aeducan estate was Bhelen's territory, and for all he knew there were people listening to every word. It was bad enough that Bhelen knew about the problems at Kinloch Hold at all.

"But-" Anders cut off his own objection, frustrated but comprehending. He dropped his head into his hands and massaged his scalp, the last crackles of loose energy lifting the hairs as he made a wreck of his neat ponytail. By the time he raised his head he was himself again, his crooked smile faint but visible. He nodded. "Lead on, O Great and Glorious Kingie."

_-oOo-_

"You want to do _what_?" Leliana blinked at her friend, horrified. "Are you insane?"

A mulish look overtook Maddy's face. "Oh? My husband can go there to die, but I am not to be permitted even to see it? I do not find this acceptable."

"But- The _Deep Roads_. It's… Maddy, you don't understand - you _can't_ understand - how dangerous and terrible it is, truly."

Tears welled up in the Queen's green eyes. "It is true, I cannot. That is what troubles me the most; Alistair will leave me and go to die and I won't even be able to picture it, to picture _him_. I won't be able to bear it unless I know what it is my husband is going to face. Surely it cannot be worse than my nightmares."

Leliana enfolded her friend in a fond embrace. "Oh, _ma chérie_. I'm sorry, but this is not possible. The danger is too great, even if you were not _enceinte_. Would you risk your children over this?"

Maddy wiped her eyes. "I do not see that I should be in danger. I wish only to go inside; the dwarves set up points of defensive barriers, _n'est-ce pas_? I would not put one foot past this, _je vous assure_."

The bard shook her head. "If it is so simple, why have you not asked Alistair? You know he would not allow it, and you cannot do this in secret. No, Maddy. I love you like a sister and for that reason I won't help you. This is madness, and I think you know it."

With Maddy wrapped in an affectionate embrace, her face was hidden in Leliana's shoulder. The stubborn gleam in the Queen's eyes, which suggested that she had no intention of letting go of the notion so easily, was hidden also.

_-oOo-_

"Welcome, Y-your Majesty."

The mages' living quarters appeared to have been hastily swept clean in preparation to receive the King. Corners of papers stuck out of overstuffed drawers, tables were still marked with the rings of careless teacups, and shabby, over-worked cushions had been inexpertly fluffed. The three mages currently in residence dropped into nervous bows, while Dagna beamed over their bent shoulders and introduced everyone. There was one man, Kinnon, and two elven women, red-haired Fenella and blond Yvenny.

"Please, I'm not here to stand on ceremony," Alistair's warm manner and infectious smile set them all a little more at ease. "May I sit? I'd like very much to hear what's happened to you all since you arrived here in Orzammar."

"O-of course." Kinnon gestured to the most comfortable-looking chair. "Please, sit here." They all hastily made way for Alistair, before offering Arl Teagan another chair. Anders threw himself down on a sofa as though he lived there, peering with interest at the various accoutrements of war piled in one corner; not only staffs but also bits of adapted dwarven armour.

It was the Warden, in fact, who spoke first, causing all eyes to fly to the King, shocked by this apparent breach in manners. "I heard that six of you got out." Anders nodded to the dark-haired man who had offered Alistair a seat. "Kinnon, I'm glad to see you here, safe. Looks like you others were Harrowed after my time. Where are the other three?"

"The other two – Torrin and Petra," replied Dagna, her cheerful face falling. "Mackis died; the darkspawn got him."

Anders sucked in a breath. "Poor old Mackis, we were apprentices together. I would never have pegged him as someone who would stick one toe in the Deep Roads. Which brings me to my next question." His bright eyes moved from one mage to another, taking in their appearance. "How many of you are patrolling and, most importantly, _why_?"

"All of us are, except for Torrin; he's working with the smiths." Kinnon cast a nervous glance at Alistair, unsure about talking directly to Anders in his presence, and received a reassuring smile in return. He took a deep breath and continued. "The King… um…. King Bhelen I mean, he wanted to know how we could be useful to Orzammar. Torrin is a runesmith, but the rest of us were told to report to the Aeducan Patrol Commander."

"But what about the taint?" Alistair's question made all three mages jump, and it was Dagna who responded.

"We've been fighting darkspawn forever; why do you think so few dwarves get tainted? We're _careful_." Her bright, innocent eyes and cheerful smile contrasted oddly with the subject. "Patrol helms are all full-face to protect the mouth, and wounds are washed out immediately if they can't be healed in battle. It's fascinating, actually - provided a healing spell is cast quickly, it seems to flush the darkspawn blood out rather than seal it in. I didn't know until the first mixed patrol came back, and have been working on a theory about it ever since. I wish I still had access to the Circle library, though."

_That helps to explain why none of our Blight companions got sick_, thought Alistair. Wynne was_ fast_. He looked at the huddle of worried faces across from him and wondered what he was going to do. Bhelen wouldn't want to give up his new advantage, and it wasn't as if he had anywhere else for them to go, right now.

Perhaps Kinnon saw something in the King's expression, or maybe the subject was at the forefront of all their minds. "Your Majesty? A-are you going to make us go back? To the Circle, I mean." His face was rigid with tension, and Alistair didn't blame him; the Circle was no picnic right now.

"No! Not as it is at the moment, no. Later, well, we'll see." It made Alistair's guts churn, to think of what the Chantry had put the mages through. These people were his subjects, and he couldn't help but feel that he'd failed them. "The question is; what do you want to do in the meantime?"

The looks they gave him were astounded, as though he'd grown a second head. For the first time, one of the elven mages spoke. "Do? What can we do? If we leave here, the Templars will find us."

Anders chimed in right away, and Alistair heard the eagerness in the Warden's voice. "The Warden Commander will be here soon; she'll be happy to consider recruiting anyone with experience fighting darkspawn, I'm sure."

_What a choice they've been left with_, thought Alistair. _Fight darkspawn here, or on the surface_. _I _must _succeed, for all their sakes._

_-oOo-_

"Ancestor's sweaty cleft!" The roar that sounded across the Commons held a dreadful familiarity that made Zevran wince. "Who let the pointy-eared nancy-boy in?"

He felt Philippe - walking beside him - stiffen in outrage, while on the other side of his prince Leliana gave a little spurt of laughter.

Walking towards them was yet another portion of the past Zevran would have been perfectly happy never to set eyes on again, flanked by a tall woman whose huge silvery armour matched her hair, and a dwarven girl who seemed miniscule even by the standards of that race, her pigtails and bright blue eyes contrasting strangely with a mass of dark tattoos.

Oghren wasted no time in sticking his foot even further in his mouth, turning to Leliana with a lecherous grin, his eyes rolling over Philippe.

"Hey, carrot-top, good to see you got yerself a new shag-piece. It's about time you stopped pining for surly-chops."

"Oghren." Any number of people would, by this point, have been happy to address him in tones of such cold disapproval, but the snapped syllables came from the armour-clad woman. "You will apologise to His Highness, Prince Philippe." She bowed stiffly to her fellow Orlesian, adding her own apology. "_Mille pardons, monseigneur_."

As Philippe rose to the occasion, taking her hand with rare grace and assuring her that herwords were unnecessary, Zevran mused upon the possible identity of 'surly-chops' while enjoying the unusual sight of Oghren growling a reluctant apology into his beard. Leliana's fiery blush suggested that a sore spot had been touched; this then must be the Warden she had inadvertently referred to. Most intriguing, to be sure, and worthy of further investigation.

Philippe smoothly moved to introduce Zev to the tall warrior with the marked Orlesian accent; his attempt to bow over Commander Leonie's hand was forestalled by her taking his for a firm handshake. "I am honoured to meet one who has faced an archdemon, _siegneur_. I have been informed through letters from Anders that you had rejoined the King, and of the great assistance you have been providing."

_Oh? I wonder exactly how much information our good Warden Anders has been feeding her?_

"You are here for the talks, Leonie?" Leliana had regained her composure and addressed the Commander as if she knew her quite well. "We only arrived this morning, so you have missed nothing important."

"For the talks, yes." The Commander's tone was as polite as always, but the reaction of both her Wardens was disproportionate to the mild response. A fierce scowl emerged from behind Oghren's beard, while beneath the murky mess of tattoos a look almost of longing crossed the female's face. "Although, King Bhelen's request that I attend him in Orzammar was… fortuitously timed."

"Oh?" The bard's wide blue eyes stared intently into unreadable obsidian ones, but apparently she saw something there she understood. "Oh."

A tiny tilt of the Commander's head confirmed Leliana's monosyllable. The gesture was uniquely Orlesian, reminding Zevran strongly of Philippe. He wondered whether this inscrutable female was also of noble origin; her scrupulous manners certainly suggested it. Too much of this conversation had been hidden from him, but there would be time later to extract more.

_-oOo-_

Wardens, nobles, royalty and advisors congregated in Bhelen's banqueting hall for the welcome feast. Unlike in a human hall, where honoured guests would sit at High table with their host, everyone sat at long tables, all set at right angles to Bhelen's unoccupied throne. He was seated in the centre of one table, with his favoured courtesan, Rica, opposite him. Alistair sat at the centre of the other table, the two Kings facing each other at a distance, with Madeleina opposite her husband. The rest of the seating was an intricate mystery to the humans, although obviously of paramount importance to the dwarven noble families represented at dinner. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the human tradition of 'above and below the salt'.

The Ferelden King and Queen had been sandwiched between some of Bhelen's most ardent supporters, which was no real surprise. Lord and Lady Dace, and the ever-present Vartag Gavorn, spent the meal gently pumping their royal guests for useful information. The convoluted nature of dwarven politics being what it was, this included virtually every word that dropped from their lips. Over at the other table, Bhelen appeared to be undertaking a similar verbal fencing match with Leliana; from the sparkle in the bard's eyes, she was enjoying the challenge. Opposite them, Philippe seemed to be having an easier time of it with Rica, charming her with gentle witticisms, lifting her wrist to smell and compliment her on her new perfume, and bantering with Teagan, who was seated on her other side. The beautiful, and very pregnant, dwarven woman seemed delighted with her company, and her tinkling laugh was heard often over the general chatter.

Across the table from Alistair, Vartag was complimenting Maddy on her fertility, a subject always close to the dwarven heart, and was curious to know how she could be certain she was having twins. The information that a good healing mage could sense them caused a flicker of interest in his black eyes, and there was a somewhat repellent eagerness in his voice as he asked if they could also ascertain the sex of unborn children. Alistair heard the slight falter in Maddy's voice as she replied that she wasn't sure; it seemed she'd caught it too.

Alistair was expecting the Daces to introduce the subject of lyrium, but they didn't do so. Instead they asked him about the royal procession, about the new trade agreements with Orlais, about the disposition of the royal troops and the Crown's ability to levy additional troops from the nobles. The latter was thrown in so carelessly that Alistair was certain it was of primary importance; presumably Bhelen had shared with them his hopes of winning assistance to regain the thaigs. It seemed curious that they did not mention what was being tabled in trade for this assistance, though.

Alistair swore to himself that once this interminable meal ended he would go over to the Shaperate and spend the rest of the night, if necessary, wading through everything he could find on the lyrium trade. His first meeting with Bhelen was in the morning, before the Proving tournament, and he couldn't afford to walk in without every tiny piece of information at his fingertips.

Everything hinged on this deal.

_Maker help and guide me. So many people's lives hang upon the thin thread of my abilities as a King_.

_And I'm afraid_.

_-oOo-_


	44. Chapter 44

_-oOo-_

Alistair pattered down the steps of the Shaperate, his guards scrambling behind him to keep up with the pace he set. His head was swimming, the result of hours upon hours sat listening and absorbing while Shaper's assistants read out complex contracts and excerpts from dwarven history. Unlike much of the lore of the noble houses, lost with the fall of Kal Sharok, the records of the lyrium trade remained intact. Orzammar, originally home of the Mining and Smith castes, protected its history zealously.

Therefore, it had been possible to find not only the final contracts drawn up between Kordillus Drakon - the first emperor of Orlais and founder of the Chantry - and Paragon Garal, but also extensive notes on the negotiations which led up to it.

The good news, which had caused the Fereldan King to breathe a sigh of relief, was that the lyrium contracts did not cover Tevinter. The contracts with the Chantry were more than a thousand years old. Contracts with Tevinter preceded these by almost five hundred years and were still upheld today. The news that he wouldn't be angering both the White _and _the Black Divines by brokering this deal was music to Alistair's ears. He didn't need any new and powerful enemies right now.

The less good news, which had all of his nerves wound as tight as Leliana's lute strings, was that he would definitely have to bid for the entirety of the contract currently held by the Andrastian Chantry. This meant that, if he was successful, Ferelden - the nation that most of Thedas perceived as ignorant barbarians – would control all available lyrium outside of the Imperium. Assuming he could afford it. The terms of the contract had proved… convoluted, and despite delving as far into the records as possible in the available time, Alistair had been unable to fully reference some of the clauses and payments.

On entering the Royal Palace he was met by Vartag, offering a stiff bow and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "King Alistair, I have a message from my king: he regrets that he will be unable to meet with you this morning as was planned. An urgent internal matter has arisen and he has been called to the Assembly to arbitrate."

Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. Sleep. He'd been up all night in the Shaperate, and this delay was a welcome one. He accepted the apologies of Bhelen's advisor without hesitation and expressed satisfaction with an alternative arrangement; the meeting would now take place after the honour Provings.

Cool, crisp sheets and soft pillows beckoned. Hopefully a few hours sleep would allow the jumble of dwarven trade, law and history to settle into his head and make more sense.

_-oOo-_

Rica smoothed her dress nervously and offered the Fereldan Queen the most comfortable chair. The scowling elven woman in high-quality leathers moved to stand behind her mistress' right shoulder. The Queen looked up, wrinkling her little nose affectionately, and the bodyguard rolled her eyes in scorn.

"May I offer you refreshment, Your Majesty?" Rica had been astonished when introduced to the Queen the previous evening. She had been expecting a tall, haughty noblewoman who would look down her nose at Bhelen's dust-town courtesan. Instead a freckle-faced girl not much taller than an elf had looked her over with wide green eyes and offered her hand without hesitation. "There is Orlesian chocolate, if you desire it; I had one of the surface traders procure it especially for your visit."

The smile she received for this consideration was warm and genuine. "I would love to take _chocolat_ with you, _madame_. I have not tasted it for quite some time. And please, call me Madeleina, or Maddy, if you prefer."

While the servant carefully prepared the sweet foreign drink, Rica made shy attempts at conversation but received only bland replies. Only once the foaming cups were placed before them and the servant withdrew did Madeleina appear to relax, settling into her chair and indicating Rica's swollen abdomen.

"This will be your second child, _n'est-ce pas_? You have a little boy?"

Rica beamed with pride. "Yes, little Endrin. He's two and a half years old, sturdy and strong like his father." Even if she had not already been informed, Rica would have been able to tell that the surfacer queen was also pregnant; five months or so if she was any judge, the swell of her belly subtle under her gown. "And you, Madeleina? This is your first, I believe?"

The queen nodded, sipping her drink. "Yes, Alistair and I were only wed in late Justinian." Possibly less than five months pregnant then, unless she had conceived immediately. A stab of envy shot through Rica; human women were so _fertile_. "It is a little frightening. In a few months I shall be a mother, I will have children to care for."

"It's true that you are having twins then?" Maddy confirmed it and Rica continued, "How wonderful. Here in Orzammar that is almost unknown." The dwarven courtesan stroked her stomach with a proprietary air. "My dearest Bhelen is so fond of Endrin and takes the greatest care of me. Only this morning he sent one of the surface mages, an elven woman, to check my health."

_-oOo-_

"It's a girl."

The dwarven king froze, the jut of his beard demonstrating the sudden clench of his jaw. "Is it certain? The mage can be sure?"

Vartag shrugged. "She seemed completely confident." Yet another way in which the mages were going to prove invaluable. The nobles would be delighted to know which of their dust-town concubines, the noble-hunters, were carrying boys and should be protected. He couldn't imagine what the surfacers were thinking, by ostracising such a precious resource.

Bhelen stroked his beard, pale blue eyes calculating. "Rica was raised to noble caste upon the birth of Endrin. Her daughter will be noble caste also."

There was a tiny pause as king and advisor gazed at each other, blue eyes challenging black. Vartag's fell first. "As you say, my King. But the nobles…"

"The nobles are fools. Orzammar needs more children if we are to survive and take back what is ours." As far as the king was concerned the matter was closed. He turned to leave, his attention already fixed on the Assembly and the lies he must tell there.

_-oOo-_

Like all such tournaments, the Proving made Alistair itch to grab a sword and shield and participate. Beside him, Maddy had her hands clasped in her lap, knuckles white. Squeamish about bloodshed, made sick even by an afternoon's hunting, this was an ordeal for her, but a necessary one. This violent pageantry was being held in their honour, and they must appear to be pleased by it.

Further along the line, Oghren was cheering and cursing with the rest, while Warden Commander Leonie…

For the first time since they had arrived, Alistair took a good look at the Commander. Dark bruises under her eyes stood out against pale skin, her cheeks were hollowed and her armour hung a little loose. He resolved to send Anders to see her; she was clearly unwell.

The final bout ended; one of the Silent Sisters applied a vicious slice that slid neatly across the join between chestplate and gorget, biting into her opponent's shoulder, and disabling his sword arm. Maddy's lip was gripped between her teeth and Alistair longed to comfort her. At least it was now over. An elven mage, the blonde woman… Yvonne? Yvette? …ran into the arena with the guards to assist the loser with his wounds. Orzammar seemed to have no concerns about using magic to their advantage, and the mage even received a little cheer of her own when the warrior stood and hefted his weapon again. She retreated to the participants' entrance, blushing and smiling.

As the honoured guest, Alistair presented the prize for the Proving: a beautifully balanced blade humming with runes. The Silent Sister received both the weapon and his little speech with a deep, respectful bow, in place of thanks, and it was all over.

Maddy's ordeal was over… and Alistair's could begin.

_-oOo-_

Of those who gathered around the King's conference table, only two represented Orzammar; Bhelen and his second, Vartag Gavorn. Alistair had expected representatives of the mining caste and noble caste to be present; the current contracts were between the Chantry and several noble houses, those who had strong links with the mining caste and represented their interests in the Assembly. House Aeducan was certainly mentioned in the contracts, but was by no means the major shareholder.

It was beginning to look like there was more going on here than Alistair had been aware of, and he sorely missed Eamon's political savvy. Instead, he was supported by Teagan, Leliana and Zevran. He would make no agreements here without consulting his wife and his other advisors, but wanted to avoid any unwise outbursts from Anders, and had decided with Maddy that it was best to keep her in the background. She had a good head on her shoulders and a knack for finding solutions to tricky problems, but could perhaps find out more by appearing to be merely a baby-carrier.

The other addition at the table was Warden Commander Leonie, invited by Bhelen. Alistair had managed a quick conversation with her before the meeting; Bhelen's letter to her stated that he wanted to gain the assistance of the Wardens to regain the thaigs. She was cautiously amenable to this, provided it didn't leave the surface unprotected. Leonie had checked with the First Warden, who basically said the same plus 'what's in it for the Wardens?'

Setting aside the matter of negotiating an advantage for the Wardens, Leonie was strongly behind Alistair's bid and would help if she could. The destruction or indoctrination of mages was not in the interests of the Wardens; they were too valuable as recruits. Added to which, a small army of mage-children were now swarming over the Vigil, causing innocent havoc; the situation with the Chantry must be resolved and soon.

Introductions were made and polite nonsense exchanged. Alistair expressed his surprise at the shortage of dwarven participants, naming the three major houses that benefited from the existing contract. It would do no harm for Bhelen to know he had done some homework.

Bhelen's smile remained urbane, eyelids drooping over a subtle gleam. "My allies know that everything I do is for the greater glory of Orzammar. They trust me in this regard."

Internally Alistair snorted in derision. It was the kind of statement that would have slid straight over his head before he took the throne, but he had made too many similar speeches himself not to recognise its careful phrases. _He's pulling a fast one_. This put the two countries on equal ground in one sense, at least – each one was trying to grab at more power for the Crown before anyone else caught on to the situation.

Hoping that none of these thoughts were too visible, Alistair set his face in sober lines and shook his head mournfully. "I was appalled to find that such an abuse of lyrium was occurring in the Chantry. To mix it with a poison and worse still, to then sell it on the open market as pure! No doubt the mining caste and their sponsors were furious when you told them?"

Beneath his elaborately plaited beard, Bhelen's mouth tightened. Guarded blue eyes gazed into unclouded hazel ones for a moment before an unexpected laugh broke from the dwarven king. "My friend and neighbour, I congratulate you on your grasp of dwarven politics. It certainly exceeds that of any of your predecessors in recent years. Within these walls at least, let us have no nonsense. _You_ are overjoyed to have the opportunity to wrest control of the lyrium trade from the Chantry, while _I_ am equally delighted to be able to prise it from the greedy grasp of the Assembly. Shall we move on from these obvious facts and discuss terms?"

Alistair grinned at him boyishly with a brisk, decided nod. From the stack before him, he pulled several closely written sheets of parchment.

The game was on.

_-oOo-_


	45. Chapter 45

_-oOo-_

The constant scritching was driving him insane.

Bad enough to have to keep details of some of the most tortuously complex contracts in the history of Thedas in his head; worse to be forced to re-negotiate said contracts with a hard-nosed git like Bhelen. Absolutely _impossible_ having to do so while distant darkspawn, located in tunnels below Orzammar, _itched_ in his blood and his brain.

"I can't do this, Maddy." The words were a little muffled, bent as he was over a table full of incomprehensible paperwork. "I'm not _clever_ enough."

Soft fingers stroked over his neck and shoulders, easing tension. "Yes you can, _mon mari_. You have done splendidly so far."

Alistair rubbed at his tired, gritty eyes. Not only was Bhelen pushing him hard in the negotiation sessions, the devious dwarven King was also ensuring that his opponent had little time for rest or thought. Entertainments followed spectacles followed tours in an endless parade of distraction.

The rest of his entourage, spared from being present at every event, were doing as much of the work as possible. Leliana and Teagan, in particular, were working hard; poring over paperwork in the Shaperate, schmoozing with anyone and everyone who might know something to their advantage. Everything they discovered must be absorbed into Alistair's weary brain; he was beginning to feel like an Orlesian goose, stuffed to repletion and doomed to be foie gras.

"There's still something missing. There's _no way_ the Chantry is paying as little as this, and Bhelen has hinted as much. He says it's not important, as he won't be looking for me to match the other payments. He wants my troops to reclaim the thaigs instead." Alistair turned over paperwork, fruitlessly looking for what he knew wasn't there. "But how can I know whether I'm being stiffed on price if I don't know what the Chantry was paying? He wants far more troops than I can spare, and I can't negotiate if I don't know everything I need to."

Maddy read over his shoulder, even though by now she knew every detail of what had been discussed and agreed so far. "The sheer size of the deliveries is an issue. The first few shipments will drain the treasury completely, assuming we can cover them at all. It'll take months, or even years, to recoup our expenses and get into profit. It leaves Ferelden vulnerable."

Her husband nodded and winced, as tense neck muscles complained. "And they will have to be shipped all over the world. Fortunately we have plenty of good ports, but nowhere near enough ships of our own to achieve all of this. The Chantry used Orlesian shipping, as the contract was with the Divine. If I strip the Brecilian forest to build ships, I can wave goodbye to any alliance with the Dalish."

"Oh!"

The stunned tone of his wife's voice made Alistair turn to her, concerned. "What? Is something wrong? Is it the baby?"

She blinked at him, coming back from some faraway place. "No! No, it's just…" Maddy frowned, considering. "I'm wondering if I can grow a forest."

"If you can grow a forest_…_ an entire _forest_?" Alistair stared at her for a moment, bewildered, and then an awed gleam entered his eyes. "For a _shipyard_?"

"Exactly." She looked suddenly stricken and her hand came up to her mouth. "Oh, how awful of me; how can I have even considered it? It causes such agony for the trees."

Alistair began to shrug and caught himself, knowing his wife would not appreciate his unconcern. "Maddy, ships have to be built and last I looked they were made of wood. If it's not from one tree, it's from another, and I'll certainly be happy not to have to explain to the Dalish why I'm decimating the Brecilian forest."

"Hmph."

It was a very unconvinced noise, but he could work on that. Getting the problem of shipping out of the equation was just too tempting.

_-oOo-_

"Darkthpawn! Get 'em!"

"Raaaaaarrrrwwww!"

"For the Gwey Wardenth!"

Feet thundered over wooden floors, skidding to a halt in tiny sparks of uncontrolled magic. The clatter of wooden weapons combined with unconvincing growls and roars from children daubed with some weird brown and green concoction cooked up by doting kitchen staff.

In the Commander's study adjacent to the main hall, Nathaniel threw down his quill, spraying ink over the documents in front of him. "Maker's blood, this is impossible." His voice bounced off the uncaring walls, while from beyond them issued thuds and giggles.

He stood and stalked to the door, trying to swallow down his impatience. He liked children and sympathised with Leonie's desire to protect them from the unduly harsh treatment of the Templars, but this was a Warden compound, for Andraste's sake. No place for a horde of kids, _especially_ ones with magic leaking out of every pore.

"Marlene!" Nathaniel inadvertently roared the name directly into the poor woman's face, flinging his door open at the exact moment she was passing.

The middle-aged mage winced, taking a step back. "Commander?"

"I'm not the-" he stopped, jerked up short by his shiny new harness. "Yes. Take those children outside to play, so I can get some work done. And if they _really_ want to hit each other, ask the master-at-arms to run them through some basics in the practice yard."

Her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. "Weapons training, Commander? For mage children?" The edge of mockery in the apostate's voice set Nathaniel's teeth on edge.

"Decent long weapon training certainly wouldn't go amiss; I can't count the number of times Anders has walloped me on the head with his staff during a fight."

_-oOo-_

"Andraste's tits, are you serious?" Anders looked up from his examination of Maddy's belly. The babies were fine, curled around each other, their physical bodies still only partially formed, but their fade selves perfect. "What were you planning on doing, Maddy, taking a picnic down there? It's not exactly a region of sunshine and flowers, you know."

"I want to see this place that my husband must go to die."

"Well, you can't. No-one goes to the Deep Roads except Wardens and the Legion." Anders nodded at Maddy, indicating that she could re-button her shift. She scowled at his implacable tone, but did as she was bid.

"As well as dwarven patrols, and Circle mages now, it seems. I wish only to be taken to the barricades, to see with my own eyes this place that Alistair must enter alone. Do you not understand?" Her pleading voice and haunted eyes wrenched at the mage, but he stood firm.

"No, Maddy, you're the one who needs to understand. Anyone who so much as sets foot in the Deep Roads has to be prepared to die there. They might not, but they have to accept that it's a risk. It is _not_ a risk you're going to take." The Warden - and Anders had rarely felt so much a Warden as in this moment - folded his arms across his chest, looking down at the small and pregnant Queen propped up on the bed. "I want your word that you won't pursue this. Otherwise I'm going straight to Alistair."

"You wouldn't!" Maddy's reproachful green eyes played expertly upon the part of Anders who was eternally ten years old and wouldn't 'tell'. In a rare display of maturity he squashed the mischievous boy.

"I would, and I will. Do I have your word?"

She squirmed and fidgeted, twisting her hands in her lap, obviously unwilling. After a moment, though, she became still, and her eyes widened. She looked up at him. "I'm so sorry, I just realised what a fool I am. You… you have to do this thing too, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Anders shrugged, a shade embarrassed by her concern. "Don't worry about me; when I became a Warden I gained thirty years of freedom." A thought struck him. "Y'know, you might want to ask Alistair about that. He was going to be a Templar, right? Could be that he thinks he's better off this way, too."

Maddy shook her head. "He said that he was furious when his Commander told him."

Anders picked up his cat, preparing to leave. He'd assured Alistair he would seek out his own Commander; they were in agreement that Leonie looked dreadful. "I still need that promise from you, Maddy. I'm not kidding when I say I'll tell Alistair."

Her shoulders slumped, defeated. "Alright, I give you my word." The sadness in her eyes tore at him, but he was buggered if he was going to let her find Oghren or Sigrun – people who didn't know her well enough to protest - and talk_ them_ into this instead.

_-oOo-_

"Oi, sparklefingers." Oghren intercepted Anders in the vestibule of the Warden quarters, planting himself foursquare in the mage's way. "Where d'yer think you're goin'?"

"Nice to see you too, Oghren. Bet you missed me, didn't you?"

"Yeah, right. Vigil's just not been the same without the smell o' cat piss." The dwarf scowled up at his friend. "If you think yer goin' pesterin' the Commander, yer wrong. Come in here a minute." Oghren's broad palm landed on Anders' back, shoving him into a side room.

"Hey, no touching what you can't afford, little man." Anders shrugged his dishevelled cape back into place as Oghren shut the door. "Now, what's with all the shifty stuff?"

"Been watchin' for yer. Knew you'd make it over here, wavin' blue light all over the place. Needed to warn yer before you stuck yer long nose in."

The unusually serious expression on the dwarf's face got his attention. "Spit it out, Oghren. Warn me of what."

"Commander. Don't go fussin' 'round her. She ain't ill."

"She isn't? But…" Anders ran out of words; if she wasn't ill, then the look on Oghren's face could only mean one thing. "I see."

"Aye. She don't want no fuss made. Good thing we had a reason to come to Orzammar; we'll be able to give her a good Warden send-off, but till then let her do her job in peace."

Anders took a deep breath and nodded. "What about the King? Alistair's a Warden, too."

"Sure, tell the pike-twirler. Ten gets you one that he'll fall face-down in his first pint, but he's gotta make the trip one day, like the rest of us. He has a right to be there."

Anders nodded again, remembering that Oghren had been fighting with Alistair while _he_ was still running from Templars. He reached for the door handle and paused when a thought hit him. "Who'll be the new Commander? You?"

"Ha!" Oghren's crack of laughter echoed around the empty room. "You think she'd trust me with anythin'? Nah, the Howe pulled the short straw. That's why he ain't here; she's left him to learn the ropes. Leonie wants to deal with this one last thing before she goes down below. She wants to make things better fer the kiddies." Oghren's customary scowl took on a minatory cast. "So, we'd best pull out the stops fer the Commander's sake, right?"

_-oOo-_

Bhelen was angling for something else; Alistair was sure of it. They had worked around and around the subject of trade concessions, of grain and wood and other imports of importance to the dwarves. They had gone over the amounts of troops available to assist with re-taking the thaigs until everyone was sick of the subject. What Alistair needed in order to take this on without bankrupting his nation were a couple of years of credit, ideally three. Bhelen had been wriggling for days, hinting at another concession in exchange for this. For some reason, he seemed reluctant to spit out what it was.

In the end it was Teagan whose patience gave out. "Your Majesty, my King cannot agree terms with you unless you state what it is you require. Forgive me, but this strange reluctance is in danger of destroying what we are working towards."

Vartag stiffened at the implied criticism, but Bhelen made no sign, merely looking at the Arl with all emotion veiled. In the end he shifted and sighed. "You are correct, but it's… a difficult subject for me, and even more so for Orzammar." His gaze moved to Alistair.

"King Alistair, we have heard some… strange tales concerning your Queen."

Alistair blinked, caught on the hop. Of all the things he may have been expecting, this was a long way down the list. "Er… such as?"

"That she cures blight sickness. That she returns the muck and mush that you call the ground to health." Both Alistair and Teagan nodded reflexively. Zevran remained impassive, his gaze on the dwarven King. "So," Bhelen sat forward, clasping his hands on the table between them, "what exactly is she? A mage? Is it magic that she does?"

Alistair's heart stuttered in his chest. He was intensely aware of Teagan at his side, whose nephew was trapped in the Circle Tower.

_Maker's breath, I thought we'd made Maddy safe from this_.

He pulled himself together, forcing out a neutral answer. "We don't know how she does it. It's believed to be a gift from the Maker and Andraste."

Bhelen exchanged a glance with Vartag. "Believed to be? You're not sure?"

Alistair didn't like where this was going. "What is it you want, Bhelen? We ask you what else you require from us to seal this deal and you start asking questions about my wife. What does Maddy have to do with anything?"

In the silence that followed his question, while Bhelen appeared to weigh the pros and cons of answering it, Zevran made an amused sound. "Allow me to enlighten you, Alistair." The fierce aspect Vartag turned on him did nothing whatsoever to faze the assassin, who turned his full attention to the bewildered Fereldan King. "I rather think that Orzammar wishes to make some use of the Queen's… unusual skill, but they were hoping to hear that her abilities come from a physical source." Wicked amber eyes slid over to where Bhelen was flushing under his beard. "Even if our good King here is pragmatic enough to stomach the idea of utilising Andraste's blessings, do you think his Assembly would accept it so placidly?"

"Maker's blood!" Alistair was on his feet, without any clear idea how it happened. "You want my wife, my _pregnant_ wife, to- to- Because right now I can only think of one place that-" He stopped, swallowing bile at the thought of Maddy down there. "Even if she _could_, which I doubt, not on rock and stone… No, absolutely not."

Bhelen was clearly annoyed at being dragooned into showing his hand so completely, but he rallied swiftly. "When we reclaim the thaigs, they will be polluted – your Queen could save us years of work. You are asking a great deal from us, to operate on credit for as much as three years. Orzammar will have to bear the brunt, and the percentage returns you can offer are not high. If you don't have something else -something unique - to offer me, perhaps I should be negotiating with a richer nation instead."

"One who's prepared to risk the wrath of the Chantry, Your Majesty?" Teagan's voice was filled with scorn. "One who is prepared to send their troops into the Deep Roads? And all this to happen before your Assembly gets wind of what you are attempting to steal from under their noses?"

"You will show respect to my King!" Vartag surged to his feet, his hand on his sword, but Zevran was faster. A throwing knife slammed into the table, a mere fraction from where Vartag's groin pressed against it. The dwarf froze and the assassin grinned, another knife already in his hand.

"Do not make me use this, my friend. I hear Orzammar is short on children, it would be a shame to deprive the world of yours." Despite the fact that Zevran's attention was on Gavorn, Bhelen pushed away from the table, fear writ plain on his face. He opened his mouth to call for the guards, but Alistair interrupted.

"Enough. Both of you stand down." The voice of military authority had Vartag responding automatically. Only then did Zevran's knife disappear into some mysterious location. "I'm calling a halt for today. We all need time to calm down." Alistair looked over to where Bhelen was only beginning to recover his composure; _he's a coward, we should remember that in future_. "You'd better decide whether you are happy with the agreements, Bhelen. Because trust me when I say that my wife will not be doing your bidding."


	46. Chapter 46

_-oOo-_

"_Ooohh, I've heard of dwarves who get in fights 'bout every time they drink."_

Tapsters was virtually empty; the owner, Corra, wiped down the bar in the rhythmic manner perfected by weary barkeeps everywhere.

"_And those who need to have a woman just to help them think."_

Quite a few of the dead soldiers lined up on the table were courtesy of her generosity – free rounds for the fabled Grey Wardens and their honoured guests.

"_And if you want to see a dwarf whine and beg and plead."_

Some had been bought by enthusiastic patrons, back when the tavern still had some, and the rest by the eclectic, mixed-race huddle of insomniacs sprawled on benches and in chairs.

"_Just pour out all his ale and take away his mead!_

"_Ooohh-"_

"Oghren, if you sing that song one more time, I'm gonna have to kill you." Even Sigrun sounded exhausted, her usual bounce buried under days and nights of wakefulness.

"Seconded." The sleeping dwarf on Anders' knee murmured at the sound of his voice near her ear, her temporary brand smeared across her cheek and on his collar. She was a surfacer, more comfortable with them than any resident of this hellhole, and a little starstruck in such exalted company.

Zevran shifted his own delightful burden, his Prince cuddled beside him on the settle rather than on his knee, but still a comforting weight against his shoulder. Every night the elf and the Wardens had gathered here to ignore their sleepless state. Every night Philippe had stoically stayed by his side; sleeping, eventually, but not leaving until morning.

He wondered why Anders hadn't taken the pretty surface girl back to his room and lost himself in her arms.

He wondered even more why he hadn't yet carried Philippe off and done the same.

Not that Zevran's issues were exactly the same as the Wardens. They'd said little about it, but enough for him to know that they could feel the darkspawn crawling around beneath the city. His problem was… more difficult to pinpoint. It was the crushing weight of the mountain; the dead air; the texture of the light; the unnatural warmth, so unlike that of the sun or even a brazier. Everything here was _wrong. _Some part of him that he barely knew existed the rest of the time was desperate to leave, to flee back to sun and sky and grass.

_So, why don't you_?

Insofar as it is possible to pointedly ignore oneself, Zev did so. Instead of pursuing that line of thought, he changed the subject.

"I notice your Commander doesn't join us for these late-night revelries. Does she sleep?"

There was a tiny stiffening of facial muscles on every Warden. Interesting. It was Oghren who answered, his usual growl a little forced to Zevran's ears.

"The Commander don't fraternise. Never did." Bloodshot eyes focussed on him blearily. "S'not so unusual. Pike twirler don't neither, now he's a big shot."

"Ah, but he has a beautiful wife to spend his nights with, yes?" A wife who nightly added a concoction brewed by Leliana's fair hands to the King's wine, so that he could sleep. The bard knew a whole range of subtle poisons, bardic secrets that she had refused to share with Zevran. When Alistair became so tired he was no longer functioning in meetings, the two lovely ladies had put their heads together and solved the problem. Zevran mentally kissed his fingers to the Queen; Alistair had been luckier than he knew, or deserved, when he married her. Strangely, the thought held none of the old sting.

"Yeah, and his days arguing the toss with _him_." Oghren yawned mightily and tugged on his beard. "How much longer they gonna be at this, anyway?"

"Oghren." Anders' warning tone said it all. Not a word of the negotiations between the two Kings was to be mentioned in public. Not even now, with the tavern empty of all other patrons.

"I know, I know. But flaming Ancestors, it's been a _week_."

Zev shut his eyes, allowing the conversation to flow over him, recruiting his strength. He should really remove himself and Philippe back to the Palace; send his constant shadow to sleep in a proper bed and spend some time in meditation. A Crow may go a long time without sleep, but there comes a point when his edge softens. They were getting dangerously close to that point.

It had been four days since his knife had nearly ended the procreation skills of the dwarven King's second-in-command. Four days of nothing much. All the other details had been hammered out to perfection: the percentage of Orzammar's mined lyrium that would be made available to the surface, the size and disposition of the Warden compound that would be set up here in Orzammar - a separate consignment of lyrium would be regularly shipped to Weisshaupt in return for _that_ concession, making them independent of the international trade - the number of Ferelden troops Alistair would make available to retake the thaigs with the Wardens; those must be drawn in part from the nobles and Alistair was counting on simple human greed to get them – every noble would want a slice of Ferelden's new pie. The final problem, which seemed insoluble, was Alistair's requirement for credit, and Bhelen's insistence on another concession in return.

They were deadlocked.

Alistair didn't dare risk the involvement of another nation to finance him – it was impossible to know whether they would simply inform the Chantry. The only exception was Tevinter and the ex-Templar King had point-blank refused to consider that option. He also refused to consider the option of allowing his wife to be used as a playing piece in this game – to the extent where all his advisors were forbidden to even tell her of it.

Bhelen repeatedly threatened to offer the contract to another nation, but they all knew how empty the threat was – every day that passed put him at greater risk of the mining caste twigging to his little game.

At this rate, both sides would lose. They would sit and glare at each other, until the mining caste got word of the poisoned lyrium and pulled the rug out from under Bhelen's coup.

Inspiration bloomed whole and complete in Zevran's busy brain.

_That's it; that's the solution_.

He frowned, considering it, turning the idea around and examining it from every angle. It may well work, but he needed Leliana's help to pull it off. Turning slightly to face the man sleeping in his arms, Zev ran his hand gently over auburn hair, still tied back, but a little mussed. The fragrance it released stirred him, but that was not the intent. A brush on his prince's pale cheek received a better reaction; a murmur and a shift, nuzzling into his neck. Also very nice, but not the wakefulness he was looking for.

"Come, _caro mio_, time to go." The murmur was low, but close enough to Philippe's ear to make him twitch and move. A flutter of his eyelashes signified a return of consciousness. Another caress, over temple and cheek, caused a slight curve of the sexiest lips in Thedas. "Up, _mio principe_, we are leaving."

"Mmm, is it morning?" The question was a little husky from the strange beverages they had consumed, the heavy smoke that always pervaded the dwarven tavern. Sleepy blue eyes peeped up at him.

"No, _amore mio_, I have work to do. I shall see you to your bed, so that you may sleep the rest of the night in comfort."

Only later, after they left the tavern, his hand under Philippe's elbow to guide the muzzy prince, only after he had seen Philippe to bed with a chaste kiss, only when he was knocking on Leliana's door did Zevran realise what he had said.

_-oOo-_

"You should take the offer, Petra." The words filled the silence of the dark room; _their_ room, with a bed for two and a _door_. Beside her, Torrin shifted, tucking in behind her back, warm and comforting. "You've seen how much freedom Anders has. You deserve it, more than anyone."

Freedom. Petra felt she had more freedom, right here and now, than she'd ever thought possible. "Free to live at Vigil's Keep while you live here? Or worse, I get to be free while you're sent back to the Circle?"

"Kinnon swore that the King said he wouldn't do that."

Petra turned in her lover's arms, feeling the need, even in the blackness, to be facing him for this discussion. "What Kinnon _said_ was that the King wouldn't do that _right now_. But, if you're correct, then there's no need for me to be a Warden, is there? I can stay here with you and fight darkspawn just as easily."

"You'll be safer as a Warden. You've seen what they're like; so much stronger than the warrior caste. You're good enough to fight with the best, to be one of them." There was a short silence, and the next words sounded forced, bitten off. "I- I don't want to hold you back. You're so much younger than me; you deserve to take everything life offers you."

She didn't know whether to slap him or kiss him. He'd always seemed so distant at the Circle, so self-contained and superior. Here in Orzammar, enfolded in the rapport they'd discovered, he was turning out to have soft squidgy depths. "You know that King Bhelen said he'll make me warrior caste, and bring you into the smith caste, if we stay. I don't know how he intends to do that with humans, but he's the _King_. If he says he can, then I believe him. Being a Grey Warden is an honour, but I'm being offered a _life _here in Orzammar, with you."

Petra ran a hand over his face in the dark, feeling the roughness of his beard. He'd been growing it longer, having a fancy for the braids the dwarves sported. "We could have a family, Torrin. Children with status of their own, children that no-one can take away from us."

The sudden silence that followed her words was as deep and impenetrable as the windowless room. She held her breath, wondering if this was just her dream, and not his. There was the tiniest glimpse of the Fade and then a wisp lit the room, illuminating dark intense eyes fixed on hers.

"You want that? Truly?" She couldn't interpret his words, couldn't know if he was with her on this or not, but he hadn't recoiled and that was a good start. "They'd never see the sun or the sky, does that not bother you?"

She blinked at him, a little taken aback. That aspect never crossed her mind... why would it? "Neither did we, Torrin, and not one single dwarf of Orzammar has, either. What does it matter, compared to freedom and a loving family?"

He didn't answer; Petra saw his gaze turned inward as he drew her into a close embrace. She didn't push it, knowing well enough that he needed time to think. A cautious man, Senior Enchanter Torrin had been, well-known and respected in the Circle for his considered judgements. Torrin, runesmith of Orzammar was developing the same reputation with his dwarven colleagues. Petra was content to have him so.

_-oOo-_

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Anders exuded brisk cheerfulness, and the guards of the Great Door instinctively responded.

"Atrast vala, Grey Warden. Are you leaving us today?"

"Oh, just a quick trip out to forage for some herbs. The Queen's babes are restless, and I'm all out of elfroot to calm her stomach." Just in case they were in any doubt about this extremely plausible story, he brandished a woven trug under their noses.

"Stay safe, Warden." One of the guards turned the mechanism and the doors opened in ponderous style, letting in a blast of frigid air. Anders shivered, glad of his fur cloak, and trod out into the mud and chaos of the surface market. This he passed through quickly, making for the edge of the forest where he could gather the herbs that were his ostensible goal.

It was, of course, a perfectly normal tactic for a mage of his experience to lay protective glyphs along his route, in case of wild animals. The fact that they would also trap anyone who happened to be shadowing him was merely a happy coincidence.

Once he was confident of being entirely alone and unwatched, Anders turned his footsteps towards the Ferelden camp where the rest of Alistair's soldiers and staff resided.

_-oOo-_

King Bhelen drummed his fingers on his desk, drawing a wince from his faithful Second. "They are living in my palace, Vartag. How is it that you can't tell me what's going on?"

"Highness, I've tried, believe me. None of the listening posts appear to have been tampered with, but I can only assume that they've found them all. Nothing of import is said near any of them."

"The servants?"

"Very few are allowed in, menials to clean at certain times, nothing more than that. Although the bulk of the King's guard and servants are camped on the surface, King Alistair's guard captain controls all access to their suites. He's polite enough about it, but it's clear he takes his job seriously."

"Flaming Ancestors, Vartag, I'm not trying to kill them." The King frowned, gazing at the wall, busy thoughts flickering across his face. "What about the Wardens' quarters?"

The repetitive drum of Bhelen's fingers was dragging over Vartag's nerves. They were both on edge; Lady Dace had been sniffing around _again_, trying to find out what the surface royals were here for. The only good news was that if the King's spies couldn't get intelligence, the nobles had even less chance. "The Wardens talk freely with no apparent concern for listeners. But they say nothing whatsoever about the negotiations. They do talk about the best ways to try to take the thaigs back; they seem keen to get on with it."

"The mages?"

"-seem to be tied up in their personal concerns." Vartag tried to keep his own weariness out of his voice. They had been around and around this. "Who is being offered a place in the Wardens, and who isn't. Whether they'll accept it, or not. Whether King Alistair will force them back into the Circle. Who's bedding who. The Wardens don't appear to have told them that we're planning a Warden compound in Orzammar, because not one of them is factoring it into their decisions."

_Drum, drum, drum, drum_.

"Highness, can't you concede the point? Surely with what's at stake…?"

The shake of the King's head was tiny; they had this conversation yesterday, and the day before, the refusal had been brisker to begin with. "The contract entered into the Shaperate has to be convincing. You _know _that. I can't succeed in breaking the Assembly unless I can move the support of the mining caste from their houses to me, and _that_ will only happen if I can present them with favourable terms." Bhelen looked set to yank his own beard out with frustration. "They aren't going to be happy about the resource they are giving up_, or_ about how I propose to replace it."

"You'll be able to break the Assembly when you retake the thaigs. You'll be made a Paragon for that; they won't be able to resist you then."

"It's safer to do it now, before they can move against me." The decision was unchanged, but Bhelen's tone was dispirited. "If only you could get me some leverage against Alistair; he must have _some_ dirty secrets. I refuse to believe that any man is squeaky clean, and especially not a King."

_-oOo-_

The man ushered into Alistair's presence was dressed as a courier, his clothes smeared with road dirt. He sunk to one knee, offering up a dusty leather document case. "I bring urgent news from Denerim, Your Majesty."

While the King broke the distinctive royal seal and perused the letter, his Queen poured wine for the road-weary courier with her own hands. A string of curses falling from her husband's lips made her head turn, brows knotting in concern.

Alistair looked up. "It's from Eamon." He handed Maddy the letter, turning to thank and dismiss the courier. He waited until the servant had left before speaking again. "_This_ is going to throw the cat amongst the pigeons. I need to see Bhelen immediately."

_-oOo-_

The letter lay on the table between the two Kings, an unexploded bomb with a short fuse. Leliana didn't miss the tiny tremble in Bhelen's fingers as he folded his hands together.

"How long do we have?" The dwarven King's question came out calm and steady, demonstrating admirable control.

Alistair frowned, rubbing his hair. It was a habit - a physical tell - that Leliana was determined to break him of. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Eamon used a Royal courier, they are the fastest in Ferelden, but I don't imagine the other messages will be far behind him. A few hours at most, I think."

Leliana kept her eyes away from Zevran's, seated opposite her; even the slightest hint of shared knowledge must be avoided. It was a good plan, made better by the fact that Alistair knew nothing about it. After being awakened by Zev in the early hours, and having the idea outlined, she'd spent the remainder of the night forging the letter. The royal seal, identical to the one Eamon had in Denerim, had been filched from Alistair's desk and then quietly returned.

Quite a few people were in on this. Anders had carried the letter, together with a note from Cedric, down to the Royal encampment. Cedric's note specified that an ordinary-looking, nondescript member of the guard should dress and act as a courier and deliver 'the Chancellor's' letter to King Alistair at Orzammar. Cedric had swapped the rota to ensure that he himself was on guard at the King's door. It wouldn't do for some other member of the guard to hail the courier as a fellow guardsman.

All had gone as planned. As a result, _both_ Kings now believed that word of the poisoned lyrium had finally reached the dwarven community in Denerim, and that couriers were even now riding post-haste to Orzammar, to inform their blood-relations and sponsors in the noble houses that the Chantry had dishonoured the ancient contract. This would render Bhelen's attempt to steal the lyrium trade from under the noses of the Assembly null and void as everyone clamoured for a new deal – all seeking one that benefitted _their_ house the most.

Through sheer professionalism Leliana kept her breathing steady, but inwardly she held her breath. Everything hinged on this moment, on the reactions of the two Kings.

Bhelen's hard blue eyes were fixed on Alistair, suspicion oozing from every pore. This was why she and Zev had agreed to keep Alistair in the dark. He was a sweetheart, and Leliana loved him as her dearest friend, but he would have sweated and squirmed if he'd known the truth.

The dwarven King broke the agonising silence, his words grated out. "You'll have to forgive me if I suspect your motives in this, King Alistair. It seems to me that this revelation is astonishingly well-timed for you."

A crease formed between Alistair's eyebrows. Leliana prayed he'd respond well. "Wait- You think_ I_ told them? You think I leaked the information?" The honest indignation in his voice was worth money in the bank. "_If_ I had, do you really think I'd be sitting here right now, showing _you_ the letter?" One blunt, callused finger stabbed down at the parchment. "If that was my game, Bhelen, then I'd be sat in my rooms right now waiting for offers to flood in from half the noble houses in Orzammar. Yes, there are other potential buyers, maybe more lucrative ones, but I'm right here. They would come to me first, and you know it."

Tiny physical tells informed the bard that, yes, the dwarven King did indeed know it. The next question he asked was almost inevitable. "Then why _have_ you brought it to me?"

"Because the Ferelden Crown would prefer to deal with the Orzammar Crown, rather than with a load of money-grubbing nobles; I have enough of those of my own, thank you. Because, if you'll forgive me for saying so, Orzammar politics are a bloody nightmare; I got involved with them once, and that was quite enough for one lifetime. The prospect of wrangling with half a dozen noble houses doesn't appeal to me."

Alistair sat back, his posture relaxed, and folded his arms. Leliana hid a smile; he was about to be brutally honest, then. It was another tell she would have to work on. "And, most importantly, because we've spent a Maker-damned week on these contracts – a week with the darkspawn _crawling_ _inside my head_ - and I'm _buggered_ if I'm going to let that go to waste unless I have to. So, do we have a deal, _including_ my three years of credit, or do I have to go through hell a second time?" She applauded his tone, which made it perfectly clear that he would, if he was forced to.

Sincerity was going to carry the day. It rang through every syllable and Bhelen's hostility was visibly melting in the heat of it. This was his last chance… or so he believed. His nod was reluctant, but definite. He turned to his Second. "Get the Shaper of Memories up here immediately. I want this contract signed, sealed and deposited in the Shaperate within the hour. You'll need to get the Warden Commander also, to sign the supplementary contracts. Set up a meeting of the Assembly for as soon as possible. I'll make the announcement there."

Leliana detected a note of relief in Gavorn's voice as he responded. "Yes, Highness."

_-oOo-_


	47. Chapter 47

_-oOo-_

"I have to congratulate you, King Alistair. You outplayed me, and I never thought to say that about a surfacer."

"Er… thank you."

There was no ire in King Bhelen's face or voice, just warm admiration for a skilful opponent. Nevertheless, Alistair remained cautious. He knew, even if Bhelen didn't, that he hadn't out-manoeuvred the dwarven king at all, freely admitting to himself that he couldn't do so in a million years. That accolade properly belonged to Zevran and Leliana, who had quietly confessed their ploy to their open-mouthed monarch after the announcement in the Assembly.

Alistair had spluttered indignantly into their grinning faces. He still couldn't believe how audacious it had been, _and_ that they had possessed the unmitigated gall to keep him in the dark. But the fact was, it had worked, they had got the lyrium contract and only later, when hours passed and no messages arrived, did Bhelen realise he'd been played.

Therefore a message from the dwarven king, asking Alistair to meet him down in the Mining quarter, had come as an uneasy surprise.

"Now that we are allies, King Alistair, with the fortunes of our houses tied to each other, there is something I want you to see." Bhelen led the way through the somewhat gloomy quarter; the guards of both Kings formed up around the pair. "We'll be entering a lyrium mine; you should cover your nose and mouth and touch _nothing_. I know how susceptible you surfacers are to lyrium."

Even just walking through the quarter, Alistair could detect the zing of lyrium in the ever-present stone dust that stung their eyes and laid a fine film over every surface. Not enough to be a problem, but enough to make his Templar-sense tingle. The mining caste dwarves going about their business, with curious sidelong glances at the two monarchs, seemed unaffected and unconcerned, obviously accustomed to the hazy atmosphere and gritty air.

The entrance to the mine was heavily guarded by dwarves wearing the Aeducan colours. The overturning of the ancient lyrium contract had created havoc in the Assembly, heralding the death of several long-standing noble alliances and causing a vast shift in the loyalties of the major mining caste families. Gossip was rife, several violent arguments had broken out in the Commons, and at least two heads of noble houses had been assassinated. Everyone was jostling for position in the new order, seeking whatever scraps may fall from Bhelen's suddenly abundant table.

The dwarven king hesitated at the entrance, turning to Alistair. "During our negotiations, you asked me what additional commodities the Chantry were providing in return for their lyrium. There was a reason you couldn't find any information on it; the contract required that the sub-contract which laid out these payments should be kept separate from the rest. This was at the Chantry's insistence."

There was a subtle gleam in Bhelen's hard blue eyes, difficult to decipher. "I've taken a grave risk, sealing this deal with a nation as small as yours, King Alistair, and I hope you are as able a politician as you appear. It is in my interests that you succeed, and I can offer you a distinct advantage against your Chantry. But I must warn you; from what I have seen of you, I don't believe you're going to like it." Alistair had no idea what Bhelen was trying to convey, so he kept quiet until prompted. "Do you want to see what price they paid?"

"Um… yes. Yes, of course I do." Any advantage against the Chantry was good, right? When Bhelen turned and entered the mine, Alistair wound a thick scarf over his nose and mouth and followed him.

_-oOo-_

Lamps down here were few and far between, the workers appearing accustomed to the gloom. Heavily muscled dwarves sweated in the hot airless passages, most wearing little other than a loincloth. Dust lay thick on their skin, the light occasionally catching on a sparkling speck. There was no digging here; workers were engaged in the endless monotonous dragging of heavy carts back up to the quarter. It felt to Alistair as though they had been walking for hours; the passages were too low for his comfort, his thighs burned from having to bear his weight at such an uncomfortable angle.

When they finally made it to the main dig site, the sense of space and air made him dizzy, even through the thick muffler covering most of his face. The two kings stood at the upper lip of a vast area, roughly circular and terraced.

Bhelen stood looking down over the floor of the mine, where people laboured in droves. "Now you see it. Under the terms of the contract, Orzammar has kept this secret for centuries, but we are no longer obligated to do so." He turned to his companion, his eyes measuring Alistair's reaction. "Do what you will with it to make our houses even stronger."

At first Alistair had no idea what he was talking about. Mines were a mystery to him, was there something about this one that he should recognise as remarkable? The layout reminded him of an enormous amphitheatre, an arena such as that where the dwarves held their Provings. Some of the terraces appeared to exist so that carts could circle up them to the exit. Others seemed to be the sites of earlier digs, the rock wall heavily bored and pocked, but now neglected. Most of the work was centred in the lowest tier, focussed on three separate areas where dwarves swung picks, rolled barrels of some form of explosive into position, or stood in groups gesticulating and shouting at each other.

Distance and angle made perspective difficult, and it was only as one of the barrels was properly positioned and the worker uncoiled from a crouch that comprehension flared in Alistair's eyes.

The labourers weren't dwarves.

Those who lugged heavy barrels, who swung picks and who filled the wheeled carts were almost all elves, interspersed with a few humans.

The surge of horror and rage was almost overwhelming. With a huge effort of self-will, Alistair kept his hand from his sword and forced his frozen lips to move. "Are you telling me that you keep _slaves_?"

It was impossible to keep the outrage from his voice, even through the muffling cloth, but Bhelen appeared unmoved. "How do you define slavery, King Alistair? Orzammar holds no-one against their will. I cannot say by what method the Divine acquires these people, but they have no desire to leave. No desires at all as far as I can tell."

"They-" Alistair stared at the dwarven king in horror and then turned, determinedly setting off down the terraces. He didn't know whether Bhelen followed him and he didn't care. His whole focus was on the figures moving around the mine site. When he reached the final terrace, and set off down the steps cut into the rock, a group of dwarves moved to intercept him.

"What are you-"

"This is no place for-"

"Branka's tits, what's a surfacer doing-"

He swept them aside, elbowing through the group with the advantage of greater height and sheer obsessive determination. Alistair reached out, seizing the nearest elf by the shoulder and turning the slighter figure to face him. It was a male, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes, his mouth and nose uncovered, and with a fine film of dust on his pale skin. His upper body held unusual muscle mass, evidence of having worked here for some considerable time. In contact with this much lyrium he should be dead in a matter of days at most. But there was a good reason why he wasn't, evidenced in the calm unquestioning eyes that turned up to Alistair's.

"_Comment puis-je vous aider_?" The question was delivered in an uncaring monotone.

Only dwarven faces were scowling at him, only dwarven voices were raised in anger at his intrusion. All the others were smooth, unconcerned. They were Tranquil… they were _all _Tranquil.

_-oOo-_

"_What?_"

Alistair knocked back the remaining contents of his glass, winced, coughed, and immediately refilled it. "Tranquil… dozens, maybe hundreds, of them. It was one of the most horrible things I've ever seen in my life." He took another swallow of the harsh spirit and added reflectively, "Which, considering some of the things I've seen, makes it prr-etty bad."

All of his counsellors and advisors appeared shocked by the information - apart from Zevran who was wearing a smug air of 'I told you so' - but Anders in particular looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach. Alistair poured a second glass all the way to the brim and passed it to him. Drinking this early in the day was usually a pastime to be avoided, but this was an emergency.

Anders took the glass absently, still struggling to process what he'd heard. "Is _this_ what that bastard Cullen has done with our Circle mages?"

Alistair shook his head emphatically and with great restraint put down his remaining half a glass. The spirit had settled the hollow, sick feeling in his stomach but now his head felt fuzzy and strange. "They were Orlesian, or at least all the ones I spoke to were. Seems that ten centuries of Divines have been making good use of all the apostates they catch." He hesitated over the next part, anticipating outrage from several quarters. "They weren't all ex-apostates though… I spoke to some of the elves; most of them came from the Val Royeaux alienage."

"_Maker's breath_." The soft curse came from Teagan. Leliana's expression was tragic, and Maddy reached for the bard's hand. And Kallian… well, her scowl could hardly have been any blacker.

Philippe addressed Zevran, his light, sardonic tone in sharp contrast to the atmosphere. "You know, my dear one, it would perhaps be better if you were not right so very often." He frowned over a tiny flaw in one polished nail, appearing absorbed by it. "Although I have never entered the place myself, I understand the Val Royeaux alienage to be a cesspit of the lowest order. More than one thousand elves packed into a space much smaller than your Denerim alienage. The chevaliers perceive it as a pestilential scab upon their fair city and complain incessantly; no doubt Celene is glad of anything which relieves the situation, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Maddy frowned at her brother, her eyes dark and unhappy. "You think our sister knows of this?"

"Do you really think that the Chantry can move such… commodities over the border without the Empress' knowledge, _ma soeur_?"

"How _are _they moving them?" Teagan asked. "Surely Bann Alfstanna wouldn't let a slave ship land at Waking Sea. She's the nearest port to Orzammar, albeit a small one."

"You're underestimating the size of Orzammar, Teagan." Alistair had already thought of this, and asked Bhelen. "The Tranquil come in at the same exit that most of the lyrium has traditionally been sent out from. It's on the other side of the Orlesian border."

"What I would like to know is this." In view of the terrifyingly sharp comprehension he'd so often demonstrated, the entire room turned to Zevran when he spoke. "If the Tranquil have been so very useful to Orzammar, why would our good king Bhelen be willing to sign a contract that excludes this so-lucrative advantage."

"Because of the casteless." Zevran raised enquiring eyebrows at Alistair, inviting further explanation. "I asked Bhelen the same thing. He said that the Tranquil cut costs to the mining caste, but that doesn't help _him_ to find work for the unemployed in Dust Town. He wants to slowly phase out the Tranquil, so that he can get the casteless into paid work."

"Hmm, underpaid work, no doubt, but still likely to enrage the mining caste." Zev shrugged, unconcerned. "However, that is his business and not ours, yes?" He offered Alistair a wide smile. "My dear friend Alistair, why is it that you are not jumping around the room in joy? The dwarven king has given you a magnificent gift, has he not?"

Alistair was beginning to wish he hadn't drunk so much so quickly. He pressed both palms to his forehead and attempted to get his befuddled brain in order. "Run that by me again?"

"Zevran is right." The mournful expression had faded from Leliana's face, replaced with the dispassionate expression she only wore when in pure bard-mode. "If you tell this to the Landsmeet, it will bring discredit on the Divine. The poisoned lyrium would only cause disfavour towards the Grand Cleric. You now have far, far better grounds to break with the Chantry. That is what you wish, is it not?"

"Break with the _Chantry_?" Teagan's tone could not have been more horrified if someone had suggested pissing on Andraste's ashes. "Like Tevinter did? No, surely not, Alistair. Tell me that's not what you are planning."

"Oh, you'd rather see your nephew indoctrinated by crazed Templars," began Anders, but Alistair cut him off.

"No, _not_ like Tevinter." All eyes were upon him now and he swallowed hard. The time had come for the really scary stuff to happen, and he quailed a little at what lay ahead. Maddy's hand slipped into his, her support bolstering him. "Tevinter split over doctrine and set the Black Divine up in opposition to Val Royeaux. Ferelden doesn't need all that nonsense, it's not helpful and it would make us a target. No, what I _want _is for the Crown to have a say in the running of the Fereldan Chantry. I want us to be able to appoint our own Grand Cleric, not rely on the Divine to put the right person in charge. I want a say in how we treat our mages; they are still _my_ subjects. I want the Fereldan Chantry to be accountable to Fereldan law, just like everyone else."

"That's a lot to ask the nobles to swallow, Alistair. Some of them are very devout; most have at least one family member in the Chantry."

"All the more reason for them to support me. Maker's breath, Teagan, you've seen some of what's been happening! I have four Templars locked in Fort Drakon for treason; they attacked me without provocation. I have poisoned lyrium in Chantry-sealed vials to prove _why_ they attacked me." Alistair ticked things off on his fingers. "We have a Circle full of tranquil ex-mages, no-one has seen the First Enchanter in months, and the Grand Cleric is burning people alive in Denerim."

"And Ferelden has now taken the lyrium trade away from the Chantry." Maddy piped up for the first time, fierce in support of her husband. "They will be very angry, n'est ce-pas? We must move swiftly to finish this, before they can react. We cannot afford for this to get back to Val Royeaux before we have won. Even if the Divine does not react, Celene certainly will. For Ferelden to become so powerful a trade centre will make her furious."

"Woah, I thought we'd be going back to the Circle, to stop Cullen." Anders' agitation showed as a slight corona of magic to Alistair, although possibly only to his Templar-trained senses. "Having found out what he's done, we can't leave the remaining mages in his custody."

"This is exactly why I have to call a Landsmeet, Anders." Alistair sympathised with the mage. He was, in fact, reminded of himself during the Blight, always wanting to pursue what seemed right rather than what was necessary. "What am I meant to do if I go to the Circle? Cullen would be perfectly within his rights to refuse to follow my orders. He answers only to the Grand Cleric, not to me. _That_ has to change, and it can only do so through the Landsmeet."

"Even though my own nephew is in the Circle Tower, I have to agree with Alistair. If this is the way forward for Ferelden, then it must be done properly and quickly."

Teagan's support made Alistair breathe a sigh of relief. If he couldn't sway Teagan, who was sympathetic to the Crown, then he would have no chance with some of the other nobles… which brought him neatly to the next unpleasant piece of news.

"Maddy, I need Arl Wulff and Teyrn Fergus' support and I don't have time to go do the pretty with them. I have to run directly to Denerim, get Eamon to begin the setup of the lyrium trade and call a Landsmeet. When the Grand Cleric begins to react then I must be present to counter her, personally." He took a deep breath. "So I need you to carry on to West Hill and Highever without me, heal some land – enough to seal their support, with a promise of more later – and bring Wulff and Fergus to Denerim for the vote.

He was expecting resistance, even an explosion, but her response was calm and determined. "Of course, _mon mari._ I understand."

Alistair squeezed her hand gratefully. "Don't overdo it; I want you in Denerim, well and healthy, before the Landsmeet. Take Kallian, Philippe and Zev, together with half our guard. I'll take Leliana and Anders – and Teagan if he'll come – and we'll make the fastest possible time on the road."

"I'd be honoured to attend you." Teagan's old-fashioned courtesy didn't hide his genuine affection, or prevent his subsequent wicked grin. "I wouldn't miss Eamon's face when you explain this for all the tea in Seheron."

_-oOo-_

"Your deeds are entered into the Shaperate, Warden Commander Leonie. All Orzammar honours you for them. Atrast nal tunsha." The Shaper of Memories translated his own words for the sake of their guests. "May you always find your way in the dark."

It was possibly the largest and most illustrious send-off a Grey Warden had received in centuries. The kings of two nations were present, together with their queen or consort. The Shaper, supported by two assistants, had reached the culmination of a long and solemn speech. In addition there were three Grey Wardens - Anders, Oghren and Sigrun – and Leliana, who had spent enough time at the Vigil over the last two years to have gained significant respect for Leonie.

The Warden Commander herself was as upright and unemotional as ever, only her black eyes appearing a tiny bit blank. Every Warden there, including the Ferelden King, looked a little worse for wear; they had made a pretty batch of it last night in Tapsters. For once Leonie had joined them, even unbending far enough to tell some filthy Orlesian jokes and to regale them with some unedifying tales of the exploits of various Wardens, including Duncan, whom she had known as a young man.

A unit of dwarves, including a red-haired human female wearing the livery of House Aeducan, waited for her by the barrier door. They had offered to escort the Warden through the nearby abandoned thaigs and hand her over to the Legion. The plan was to push the Legion camp as far forward as possible before she fell; no Warden could ask for more.

Leonie said a few polite words to the Shaper and to King Bhelen before turning her gaze upon Alistair. He took her hand, forearm to forearm as befitted a pair of warriors.

"The First Warden did Ferelden a great favour when he chose to send you to us, Commander. Thank you for everything you've done."

"You will keep the little ones safe for me, _monseigneur_?"

Alistair nodded, swallowing down a surge of emotion. "I give you my word. Fight well, sister." He felt Maddy's grip tighten on his left arm. She had been trembling like a leaf against his side throughout the ceremony; he knew why, but couldn't think of a single thing to say or do to comfort her. She bore up enough to murmur a farewell to Leonie, but the effort was visible.

Leonie turned to say a few words with Leliana, a soft murmur which did not carry but which made the bard's cheeks turn pink. Leliana nodded, her eyes on the floor, and Leonie moved on with a satisfied expression.

"Kill a few extra fer me, Commander. I soddin' salute you."

Oghren did so, in the style of the dwarven military, and Leonie returned his salute crisply. "Behave yourself for the new Commander, Oghren. He'll need your support."

Next in line, Anders demonstrated a bravery that made the others blink and took Leonie's face in his hands. "Fine old tradition, Commander. Surely you've heard of it?" He gave her a hearty buss on the lips before releasing her, provoking a coughing fit from Oghren but, most importantly, bringing a spark of life to Leonie's eyes. A smile hovered around her mouth as she thanked him.

"You have done well this year, Anders. Continue to assist the Crown, but do not forget you are a Grey Warden."

Sigrun received a hug, the Commander demonstrating unexpected affection. Their conversation was delivered in an undertone and only the end of it was audible as Leonie disengaged.

"… _non,_ I forbid it. You know that I need you here." Under the blocky tattoos, Sigrun's face was marred with a scowl, but she nodded acceptance.

Without another word or look, Warden Commander Leonie turned and strode over to where her escort waited. The barrier door opened, letting in the hot, stale, dusty air of the deeps to compete with the smells of Orzammar.

Alistair drew his sword and raised it high. "For the Grey Wardens!" he bellowed, and every weapon left its sheath to join his in the air.

"For the Grey Wardens!"

The resounding shout squared the Commander's shoulders and she stepped through with the rest of the troop. The barrier door closed behind them, the mechanism whirring into place.

_-oOo-_

Later, back in their rooms, Maddy broached the subject with her husband. Their belongings were packed. They would be rejoining the rest of their entourage in the Frostbacks, but Alistair intended to leave for Denerim almost immediately, travelling light and moving fast.

"_Mon mari_, when you… I mean, when it's _that_ time… for you. Will it be like that?"

"I guess so." He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over hers, as he often did. "I've never seen a Calling before. I imagine a lot of them are quieter, but I don't suppose they'll let me get away without some pomp and ceremony."

She drew in a shuddering breath and expelled it shakily. "Then I think, perhaps I can bear it… knowing that you won't be alone in the dark, but I want to come here with you, to… see you go." She shook a tear from her cheek and smiled mistily as he drew her close.

"Maker willing, it's years away, Maddy, but if you still feel the same way when the time comes then… I'd like that."

Alistair rested his chin on her hair, breathing in her scent. It would be many weeks before she made it to Denerim to rejoin him. "Promise me you'll be careful while I'm in the capital."

He felt her nod. "I won't take risks with our children, Alistair, I promise."

"Not just the children, Maddy." He pulled away enough to see her face, lifting her chin so she must look him in the eye. "I need _you_ to come home safe. I can't do this without you. Maker, I don't know how I _ever_ coped without you." Her lip trembled and he brushed his thumb along it. Only now, with their first separation looming, did he realise just how much he'd come to rely upon her. She'd supported him in everything he did, always so proud of his achievements, even though most of the time they were down to her, or one of the others.

"I love you, you know that, right?" The expression on her face was so… so vulnerable. He wondered for the first time if she _hadn't _known. "I love you, and I need you more than anything else in the world. Come home safe to me." The sob that broke from her startled him, then her arms wound around his neck and her mouth was soft against his. They said their goodbyes without words, as couples so often do.

_-oOo-_


	48. Chapter 48

_-oOo-_

Alistair pushed his group hard – reverting to Blight habits of early starts and long, tiring days – and made use of every advantage that regular changes of horses and the well-travelled North Road could provide. They had no cumbersome royal trappings to slow them down; all the heavy marquee tents and luxurious camp beds had been left in Maddy's cavalcade. Still, when the bulky silhouette of the capital city appeared on the horizon, everyone breathed a little easier; it had been an exhausting trip.

"Maker's blood, Alistair, I'm too old for this." At the young king's amused snort, Teagan smiled ruefully. "It's all very well, laughing, but I can give you fifteen years, you know. I can't believe how much ground we've covered in so short a time."

"Eight days…" Alistair chewed his lip thoughtfully. "My courier should have reached Eamon at least a day ago, maybe more. My hope is that we'll arrive ahead of any letters from Orzammar to their contacts in the dwarven community, and also before the Grand Cleric gets wind of what's happening. Bhelen will send his letter to the Divine – he has no contract with our Grand Cleric – so Loopy Leanna will no doubt hear gossip in Denerim before she gets official notification from Val Royeaux."

Anders sighed wistfully. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the Divine gets that letter. I wonder how much lyrium the Chantry has stashed away. She's going to chew through her own tongue about having to come cap-in-hand to you for more."

This thought cheered them all as they spurred their horses on to Denerim.

_-oOo-_

The news that the King was making his way through the city to the Palace district - covered in road dust and devoid of his Queen - sent Eamon scurrying to greet him. Alistair's hasty scrawl, which had told his Chancellor just enough to worry him, had arrived two days ago, and he was keen to receive the full story.

The young man who rode in through the Palace gates, his face drawn with weariness, struck him as subtly different than the one who left four months ago. He was still affable, but now appeared much more an affable _King_. Only someone who had known him for so long would have spotted the change. It was apparent in how he thoughtlessly threw the reins of his horse to a groom, lacking the self-consciousness with such servants that had previously characterised him. It showed in the easy way he ordered a room prepared for Arl Teagan, but most of all in how he addressed Arl Eamon himself.

"Eamon," Alistair gripped the Arl's outstretched hand and offered his usual boyish smile. "Good to see you. We need to speak, and quickly, but first I wish to bathe. Come up to my sitting-room in half an hour, please." Alistair nodded to Teagan, Leliana and Anders. "You three, also."

And that, it appeared, was that.

The King strode off, issuing a stream of commands regarding hot water and food, both for himself and his guests, to Chamberlain Bertrand, who followed in his wake.

Eamon turned to his brother, who was watching him with a lurking twinkle. Teagan dismounted and handed off his horse before clasping his brother's hand. "I trust you are well, Eamon?"

Eamon nodded. "I am as well as can be expected, thank you, given the… well, more of_ that_ later." The brothers turned to enter the palace, leaving Leliana and Anders to deal with the grooms in their turn. "I was surprised to hear that you accompanied Alistair to Orzammar, but then the news I've received has been necessarily brief. Teagan, the Circle… I mean, do you know-? Is Connor well?"

Teagan's expression clouded over. "I don't know. I hope so. We'll explain everything, but privately. Now, for pity's sake, Eamon, show me my room and let me bathe. I think I've picked up half the North Road on this mad journey."

For the half-hour wait, Eamon did little other than pace. He had no idea how much of the truth he'd been told in correspondence – even royal couriers could be intercepted, after all – but from what he _had _been told, Alistair's actions appeared rash, indeed. Certainly the Grand Cleric was unstable – his own meetings with her over the last few months had demonstrated as much - but the calm, diplomatic approach would have been to request her replacement and leave the matter in the hands of the Divine.

Alistair had certainly sent a letter to the Divine, but he had neither waited for a response, nor sent a delegate to plead his case. Instead, he had taken umbrage over the execution of apostates – who would, reflected Eamon, have been killed anyway – and insisted on direct action against the Chantry. Poisoned lyrium was, of course, a shocking thing – the behaviour of the four Templars languishing in Fort Drakon attested to that – but to respond by taking the lyrium trade away from the Chantry and into the hands of the Crown… The potential consequences of such a rash action made Eamon feel cold all over.

The Chantry, and by extension the peoples of every civilised nation, believed that the Chantry held the lyrium trade by Divine right. The sudden assumption of the trade by Ferelden could well trigger an Exalted March. Not to mention the responses of the other nations – and, in particular, Alistair's very powerful sister-in-law – to such an enormous change in the fortunes of such a small country. Closer to home, the Grand Cleric would be well within her rights to muster support from the nobles against the monarch who had taken such a ruinous course.

This was setting aside the extra-ordinary rumours Eamon had been hearing regarding Alistair's new Queen. _That _would also have to be discussed...

_-oOo-_

The eastern pass through the mountains offered far easier terrain than the one up from Lake Calenhad, but it still took over a week for the young Queen and her reduced entourage to encounter the first of the villages on the outskirts of West Hill.

It lay on the bank of the River Dane, and should have been a bustling community, situated so close to the mouth of the Waking Sea as it was. Instead, only a pitiful huddle of houses showed signs of occupancy with the rest falling into disrepair. By comparison, Lothering was thriving, despite the ravages of the Blight.

Captain Cedric reined in beside Maddy. "The quartermaster was hoping to pick up fresh food supplies once we left the mountains, but it doesn't look very hopeful. Do you wish to break your journey here, or shall we press on?"

"I'm sure we're all tired of cured nug and mushrooms, Cedric. Let's at least see whether there is food to be had. I have no doubt our coin will be welcome, if so."

"True enough." He turned his horse and called out some orders, bringing the muddle of wagons and soldiers to a halt. Cautious heads peered from doorways before vanishing again. Cedric frowned around; puzzled that no-one had come to meet them. The square was deserted, although the twitch of window blinds suggested they were still watched. Cedric chose the biggest and most prosperous-looking residence – not that there was much to pick between them – and strode up to the door. He raised his fist and hammered on the wood. "Open, in the King's name."

After a short pause the door opened a scant inch or so, sufficient only to allow a somewhat bloodshot eyeball to scan Cedric's armour and livery. Apparently the sight reassured the owner of the eye, as the door opened wider to reveal an anxious-looking middle-aged man in work-worn clothing, salt and pepper hair thinning on top.

"My humble apologies, ser; these are difficult times, difficult indeed, and we must be careful. What is your pleasure?" His voice had a slightly whiny quality which grated on Cedric's ear.

"Supplies if you have them; the Queen is on her way to visit with Arl Wulff, and some variation in our diet would be welcome."

"The Queen! Here?" The fellow seemed to shrink away, his gaze darting to where a muddle of horses and riders milled aimlessly, awaiting word from the Captain.

Cedric narrowed his gaze, wondering what the problem could be. "Indeed," he paused and added, delicately, "do not be concerned… we are not looking for accommodations, we merely wish to buy food, if you or your neighbours have any to spare." It seemed to the Captain that the only possible explanation for the man's obvious jitters was the difficulty in housing and feeding so many people. Arl Wulff's lands were well known to have been badly hit by the Blight, and the number of derelict houses here gave credence to the rumours.

The prospect of coin certainly brightened the man's eye, and he even went so far as to mumble a greeting. But his nervous gaze flickered constantly to where Philippe was assisting Maddy to dismount, swinging his sister down from the saddle with the ease of long practice. Cedric left him to advise those behind the twitching curtains and shutters what was required, and returned to his Queen.

"Well, Ced, are we to dine on nug again?" Maddy's bright smile was accompanied by a round of theatrical groans from soldiers long accustomed to her company.

"I hope not, ma'am, but we shall see. Conditions here…" He waved his hand, indicating what they could well see for themselves. "If this is an indication of what's to come, Arl Wulff will fall on his knees in gratitude for your assistance, I would say."

She looked around with a doubtful air. "This is not farmland, is it? I do not know how I could help."

"Assist those further in, and the riverside villages will prosper." Cedric spoke with authority; his father's land was just such: fishing supplemented their income, but the majority came through milling and shipping of grain from the heart of the bannorn. He pointed to stationary watermills, and continued, "Once those are running again, people will flock back to villages like these."

She nodded understanding and they both turned, distracted by the appearance of one or two villagers burdened with baskets of foodstuffs to sell. It seemed that nug would not be on the menu, after all.

_-oOo-_

By the time Teagan entered Alistair's sitting room, everyone else was gathered there. Although weary, he was thankful to be clean, and revived further at the sight of the small mountain of cold cuts, bread and fruit gracing the sideboard. Alistair greeted him by merely waving at the display, whilst tucking into his own meal with customary appetite. Leliana and Anders had their heads together, giggling over something, while Eamon…

Teagan couldn't deny that he'd been looking forward to seeing Eamon's reaction to the change in Alistair. His brother was frowning, obviously keyed up, and wasted no time in getting the ball rolling.

"Now that everyone's here, shall we begin? Alistair, I appreciate that open communication has been… difficult during your trip. None of us envisaged the situation becoming so sensitive, and in such a short space of time."

The King grinned, dusting off his hands and setting his plate aside. "I must say it's nice not to have to watch every word I say, or have Lel and Zev sweep every room for listening posts before I open my big mouth." He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands loosely on his knees. "I can't recall exactly what I have and haven't told you about the situation with the Chantry, so I'd better just run through it quickly."

Alistair ticked the points off on his fingers as he spoke. "First of all, the Chantry is definitely cutting their lyrium with deathroot, both for their Templars and for sale. This you know, right?"

Eamon confirmed that he did, adding, "The four Templars that Bryland sent us were out of their heads from lyrium withdrawal by the time he got them to Fort Drakon. I approved a daily dose for them and they stabilised. Alistair, they have no memory of attacking you, in fact they are horrified at the mere idea. Are you certain it wasn't an error? The Grand Cleric has called for their release several times."

Anders snorted derisively. "An error? You mean a 'oh look, a king; let's charge at him waving our weapons' type error? Yeah, it was that, for _certain_."

Alistair jumped in before his Chancellor could retort. "Eamon, I had three Dalish Keepers with me and Anders. They were so crazed with bloodlust against mages I'm not even sure they _heard_ me declare my presence, but it was loud and clear. There's _no_ excuse for them."

He continued with his list, "We've ascertained, for certain, that not all Templars are being given this kind of dosage. All the Templars we've spoken to who're stationed at outlying chantries are perfectly rational." Alistair rolled his eyes towards Anders, who had made another disbelieving noise. "At least as rational as they ever are. However, I think we can assume that most, if not all, of the field agents are out of their minds on poisoned lyrium – not only did those four attack me, but we've heard plenty of reports of them mistreating young mages under escort. We are also certain that the Templars at the Circle tower are being poisoned – we have physical evidence taken from there."

"How could you possibly have such a thing?"

Alistair seemed to have been expecting Eamon's response; his grin was immediate, mischievous and boyish. "I had Leliana and Zevran break in."

"_What_?"

This time Teagan stepped in, feeling that his brother's shocked reaction lacked all the facts. "Brother, bear with us, you didn't see the Knight Commander when he came to Redcliffe. I did and he was definitely hiding something; we feared for the safety of the mages, and with good reason as it turned out." He wished he could add something reassuring in the face of the sombre look Eamon gave him, but had nothing to offer. He could only hope that Connor was alive and well.

With a sympathetic grimace aimed towards both the Guerrin brothers, Alistair carried on. "Between what Zev saw in the Circle, and what we later discovered at Orzammar… Well, it's not good, and I feel responsible for not stopping it, but I can't annex the Circle without the Landsmeet behind me. Listen to this; you won't _believe_ what Loopy Leanna and Crazy Cullen have done between them-"

While Eamon listened in silence, Alistair went on to explain in detail the situation at the Circle: the increased trading and extended Tranquil quarters; the culling of all potential 'troublemakers' and their conversion to Tranquil; the breakout of half a dozen mages led by the dwarf Dagna; the revised regime at the Circle, and its apparent similarity to Templar training.

"So this is why you cut the lyrium trade out from under the Chantry," Eamon murmured finally, stroking his beard. "I see your reasoning, my boy, but it's rash, very rash. Our problems with the Chantry are a local problem, and now you have provoked hostility from the Divine. Surely you appreciate that we can't possibly stand against an Exalted Ma- Alistair, why are you grinning at me in that fashion?"

Alistair wasn't the only one. Wide smiles had broken out all over the room, although a chill went down Teagan's spine when he considered the root of those triumphant grins. Nevertheless, there was a definite note of smugness in the King's response.

"I'm grinning because we have the Divine by the short and curlies; hold on to your hat, Eamon, because this makes everything else look like small change." He sucked in a deep breath before revealing their ace-in the-hole. "The Chantry has been paying for their lyrium with Tranquil slaves for the past thousand years."

"Don't be ridiculous." Scorn dripped through every word. "The Chantry would never do such a thing."

"I did not think so either." Leliana's lilting voice lifted in support of Alistair. "But, Maker forgive them, it is all true."

"I saw them with my own eyes, working down in the lyrium mines." Triumph had bled away from Alistair's face and voice, leaving a trace of the horror he had displayed in Orzammar. "And not only ex-maleficarum and apostates, there were elves from the Val Royeaux alienage, also."

"Maker's breath." Despite the expletive, Eamon's eyes were distant, calculating. Teagan knew his brother well enough to know that dismay over the plight of the slaves was the last thing on his mind. When the elder Guerrin brother turned his eyes back to his King, this was apparent in his speech. "You mentioned annexing the Circle. Is that your intention, then? To seize control of the Circle Tower?"

At this question Teagan's eyes turned to Alistair, along with everyone else's. They all, bar Eamon, knew the answer to this question, and just what a difficult path their young King had chosen.

Alistair was shaking his head vehemently. His jaw was set and his voice rang with determination. "That's not enough; I will _not _have our Chantry run by maniacs. No, Eamon, I need your help to sway the Landsmeet. Even with all the evidence we have, this won't be easy. I want to take the Ferelden Chantry away from the authority of the Divine, bring it under the protection of the Crown. I want our clerics, our Templars _and _our mages made safe. They are _all_ my subjects."

There it was: the same majesty that Maric had been capable of, and Cailan had not. It was obvious to Teagan, who had known all three Theirins, and surely Eamon must be seeing it too – the lift of the King's jaw and the light in his eyes that stated he would not be gainsaid. Instead of arguing, his brother looked thoughtful, considering Alistair's words.

"We'll discuss this further, and also how to deal with this enormous change in our fortunes. I need to absorb what you've told me first, I think." Eamon frowned and fixed his eyes on Alistair. "In the meantime, the other thing we must discuss is the atrocious mess surrounding your wife."

_-oOo-_

With the supplies loaded and paid for, the Queen's travel party mounted up and moved on. Something was niggling at Zevran's mind, and, as they rode along, he turned over the events of the last couple of hours trying to work it out.

There had been no threat of any kind, nothing to put him on alert; even now he did not feel the presence of any danger, it was just…

He moved his horse up beside Kallian's, needing someone to talk this through with. "My friend, did anything strike you as strange in the village we passed through?"

She gave him her attention, pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders; a somewhat biting wind was blowing. "You mean apart from the way they hid from us?"

"Yes, apart from th-" His forehead creased in thought. "No, _not _apart from that. Why would they be so suspicious? We are flying the King's banner, are we not?"

Kallian shrugged. "Yeah, well, do all of the King's soldiers pay for stuff? Or do they take? Do they… y'know… take more than just food?"

"You mean, do they rape?" Kallian's mouth tightened, the old scars around it showing up white. Zevran mused that such a scar could well be caused by a backhanded swipe from a man wearing a heavy signet ring. "I imagine that would depend upon the nature of their commander. I can well conceive of what our upright Captain would do to such a man, no?"

The vicious grin which answered this brightened her usually sullen face, and they rode in companionable silence for a moment, musing pleasantly on such an eventuality.

"Still," said Zev, returning to his theme, "there was something more, something that struck me as _odd _about their behaviour, and I cannot pinpoint what it is."

"To be honest, provided they leave Maddy alone and don't threaten her, I couldn't care less. Maybe you should be asking Ced; it's his job to notice the bigger stuff, right?"

"Hmm, perhaps you are right, I shall speak with our fine _Capitano_." Zev nudged his horse again towards where Cedric rode at the head of the column with the Queen. Then, halfway there, he pulled on the reins, drawing his horse to a standstill. He thought for a moment and then turned, riding back to Kallian.

"You are absolutely correct; how very clever of you."

"Huh?" She blinked at him, at the mocking curl of his lip. "What did I say?"

"That they left Maddy alone. If I recall correctly, I did not see one single villager approach the Queen. No-one wanted to curtsey to her, to have their baby touched, to receive her blessing. Since Lothering she has been treated by the common folk as a living saint, and yet those villagers avoided her. Now why would that be?"

_-oOo-_


	49. Chapter 49

_-oOo-_

"Alistair, it is not fitting for you to ignore this. The Grand Cleric must hear of the new arrangements from your own lips."

"Bhelen is writing to the Divine. I'll do the same. As for Loopy Leanna… she can hear the news from marketplace gossip for all I care." Alistair bent again over the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Apparently, he believed the discussion to be at an end.

Eamon bit down on an unseemly retort and tried again. "I realise that, for months now, you have been accustomed to keeping information from the Chantry. Your aim in that regard has been accomplished-"

"Has it?" Alistair's question cut straight across his Chancellor's words. He threw down his pen and looked up, anger in his eyes. "I'm taking the Ferelden Chantry off her, Eamon. Her _and_ the Divine; they aren't fit to run it. How does giving her an audience, allowing her the opportunity to pick up on our intent, help us?"

Eamon sighed, recalling the conversation he'd had with his brother the previous night.

"_Alistair is truly a king now, Eamon, you can't lead him around by the nose any longer."_

"_I can see he's grown, Teagan, but unfortunately he's developed into a blunt instrument. He must learn some subtlety if he wishes to succeed."_

"It is our job, you and I, to ensure that she learns only what we wish her to. But we must give her an audience and quickly, before she hears from elsewhere. It is not conducive to the dignity of the Crown to be seen to engage in underhanded deals." He couldn't resist a single snipe at his rivals. "You've been spending too much time with spies and assassins; you're beginning to think like them."

The annoyance drained out of Alistair's face, to be replaced with faint amusement. "Those 'spies and assassins', as you call them, are the people who got this deal for us, Eamon. They were the ones subtle and clever enough to force Bhelen's hand, not me." His Chancellor wisely kept quiet, and after a moment of thought the King capitulated. "All right, set up a meeting. And you'd better ensure I don't have a sword to hand, because I'll be sorely tempted to take her scheming head off."

_-oOo-_

Leliana hunched over her drink, her bright hair tucked under a shabby cap. Around her flowed the music of the dockside tavern; braggadocio, bluster, rumour and gossip in every language of Thedas. A couple of Orlesian sailors were speaking disparagingly of the skills displayed by the whores of the Pearl; comparing them unfavourably with those of their favourite establishments in Val Royeaux and Antiva City. A Rivaini with tattooed arms apparently made of oak challenged a scowling Qunari to arm-wrestle. A group of native Fereldans, mercenaries of several different units if their sashes and badges were anything to go by, were topping each others' tall tales of their doings during the Siege of Denerim.

And there, swimming up from behind their raucous voices, was the refrain she was seeking.

"…a witch, I heard, with the King in thrall."

Leliana tilted her head, trained ears shutting out the extraneous noise and chatter. Several voices expressed shocked amazement, one going so far as to protest that their sainted Queen was beloved of Andraste and had proved it in Lothering.

"Ah, a clever ruse, and one that only a mage or a witch could have carried off. No-one else can do magic, is it not so?" The accent was Orlesian; Leliana listened closely, deconstructing the syllables for the region. Not that it mattered; the speaker would be in Fort Drakon by nightfall, together with everyone else she'd discovered mongering this particular rumour over the past two days. Most of them would be innocent of serious ill-intent, merely passing along what they themselves had heard, but that would not save them. Anyone foolish enough to speak such treason could expect to find themselves on the gallows, once any and all information had been drawn from them.

_I only need one_, thought the bard. _Just _o_ne who knows from where this story really came_. When Eamon told them of the rumours spreading like wildfire, Alistair had been furious – his friends knowing full well why, even if his Chancellor didn't. After all their work and effort, for Maddy to be named a mage was a catastrophe. Especially now, with the lyrium trade stolen from under the Divine's nose and their plans for the Chantry. Any rumour that the Queen was a mage would undermine Alistair's position; make him appear self-interested at best, and at worst… At worst he would be seen as the rumour said him to be: the thrall of a witch or a maleficar. It was ridiculous, of course, as Anders had hastened to point out - Maddy couldn't control him all the way from West Hill. But that wouldn't prevent the nobles from losing faith in their King and turning their backs on his proposal.

When the speaker finished his drink and arose to leave the tavern, Leliana followed. All of the guard were on alert; she need only tip them the wink and he would be quietly taken into custody. Meanwhile, she would make her way further into town, away from the sea breezes and stench of rotting fish; she'd find another tavern, another tankard of vile brew to sip from, and another raucous song in which to seek the same motif.

_-oOo-_

"Welcome to West Hill, Your Majesty." Arl Wulff, a gruff grey-beard with lines bitten deeply into his face, met the Queen's cavalcade on the approach to the town. He bent over Maddy's hand from the saddle, before turning his horse to ride beside her. Kallian shifted her own position to accommodate him, her eyes flicking over his person, looking for weapons. They weren't expecting trouble from the Arl, but it paid to be careful around noble _shem_.

It paid to be careful, full-stop, at the moment. After crossing the river, and re-supplying in that weird little village, they had cut north-east cross-country. Not that the view here was anything to write home about; signs of war and Blight were gouged into the landscape. It had upset Maddy, but not as much as it used to; familiarity was hardening her to… whatever it was she felt from the trees and plants. Kalli had no idea what that was, and hadn't much tried to figure it out; it was enough for her to know that it upset her employer and therefore made her more vulnerable to attack at certain times.

Once their horses clattered into town, following the road that wound up towards the Arl's fortress, it became apparent that the strange reactions Zev had spotted yesterday morning had not been an isolated incident. The townsfolk turned out en masse to view their sovereign's foreign wife, the majority cheering and waving as one would expect at the passage of such an exalted figure. There was also an occasional cry in praise of Blessed Andraste, or a reference to Maddy as the Saviour or Chosen. These certainly made the Queen uncomfortable, but. since Redcliffe, she had become a little more accustomed to them. What she was certainly not accustomed to - and what made both Kallian and Zevran bristle and turn sharply, trying to spot the culprit – were shouts of 'mage' or even 'maleficar', the latter in particular causing a scuffle as the Queen's supporters leapt to her defence.

"Ignore them, Your Majesty, let's just get to refuge." Arl Wulff seemed unsurprised by the mixed responses, stiff-backed certainly, but not outraged. It confused Kallian; she figured any of the nobles would call out the guard in a second at such talk, dragging off the offenders for, at the minimum, a serious kicking.

Philippe certainly looked angry, as did Cedric. Maddy too was scowling, reluctant to be ushered away to safety, but it was her brother who protested.

"You are going to allow this, seigneur? The honour of your Queen, my sister, is at stake."

The Arl shot a quick look at him under heavy brows. "Please, Your Highness, let's discuss it once we reach the castle."

Philippe's mouth, usually set in lines of humour and mockery, tightened in annoyance, but it was to Zevran he looked for guidance. Kalli saw the assassin shake his head slightly, his wary amber eyes on the Arl, and the Queen's brother capitulated.

When their reins had been handed to grooms, the Arl led the way into a shabby, comfortable receiving room, without offering them the opportunity to wash or to change first. The instant the door closed he swung around to face where Maddy stood, anger apparent in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it, his voice harsh and abrupt.

"Is it true you can heal the land?"

"Of course she bloody can." The words were loud, echoing around the room, and it took Kalli a moment to realise that she was the one who had spoken. Arl Wulff's eyes flicked over her dismissively, just like nobles always had, before returning to Maddy.

"Sieur Kallian is correct and, as always, delightfully succinct." Philippe's voice was suave, restrained, with just a tiny emphasis on her title. "My sister has been blessed with many successes and no failures, thus far." There was a tiny pause before he continued, in exactly the same smooth tone of voice. "And I take leave to tell you, siegneur, that your manners are atrocious."

The Arl passed a shaking hand over his face and, for the first time, Kalli saw how haggard he looked. "My apologies, Your Majesty, Your Highness, I've been on tenterhooks for days awaiting your arrival. I don't think you realise how wound up the townsfolk are, everyone is desperate. If you can't help us…" He swallowed, his mouth set in hard lines. "If you can't help us, then most people here will starve next year. Maker help me, I can't blame them for listening to rumour and gossip; they are terrified, and rightly so."

The anger had drained from Maddy's face during this speech; in fact all of their party appeared to have relaxed slightly. The Queen held out her hands to the Arl who, after a moment's hesitation, took them.

"Do not worry, Arl Wulff, I will do whatever I can to help." Reassurance rang in every syllable, together with all the warmth that had softened Kallian to her mistress. "I can only do a little right now - you and I are both needed in Denerim, and I will explain to you why once we have washed and eaten – but I promise that I will prove to you, and your people, that West Hill can be reclaimed."

He looked searchingly into her eyes, seeming to see something that he needed. The old Arl bowed over Maddy's hand, kissing her fingers with old-fashioned elegance.

As the Arl straightened, reaching for the bell pull to summon servants to see them to their rooms, Zevran spoke for the first time.

"I would like to hear more about these… rumours, if I may remain behind and speak with you?" It was a credit to the Antivan's sheer confident presence that the old-school nobleman didn't dismiss him on account of his pointed ears, but instead nodded agreement.

_I really _have_ to work out how he does that_, thought Kallian.

_-oOo-_

"Maker's blessings upon you, Warden."

Anders' initial scowl dissolved into a cautious nod as he realised exactly which combination of hated purple, yellow and steel-grey metal he'd cannoned into near the entrance to the palace: Ser Bryant, last seen in Gwaren, and committed to the King's cause.

"You got the letter?" Alistair had sent notes to several of his Templar converts before he left Orzammar, inviting them to join him in Denerim. "They let you come?"

"I, um-" The burly Templar flushed slightly under his deep tan. "I told the Revered Mother that I was summoned to Denerim. She assumed that I meant at the command of the Grand Cleric, and I… allowed her to think so."

Admiration brightened Anders' eye; neat escapes never failed to please him. "Nice. Best get you under cover though; the Loony One is coming here today and it won't do for her to see you." He tried to bustle the holy knight further into the palace, failed, and finally hooked a finger under an armour strap and pulled.

"The-?" Ser Bryant choked as he began to move, dragged along by that insistent hand. "You mean Grand Cleric Leanna? Is it really necessary to be so _rude_?"

"Necessary? No. Fun? Definitely. But mainly I find that calling her names lets off just enough steam to prevent me from storming over to the Cathedral and turning her into a greasy puddle." Anders stopped walking, causing Ser Bryant to crash into him. He turned and waved a minatory finger at the bigger man. "And don't think for one second that I couldn't. Anyway, once the King tells you everything that's happened I'm betting you'll be happy to hold my hat while I do it." Once again they set off, plunging deeper into the palace, away from prying eyes that might note this Templar - whom Alistair had earmarked to be the next Knight Commander of the Circle - and wonder at his presence.

_-oOo-_

Milking Arl Wulff for information on the Queen's local reputation took longer than Zevran anticipated. It was not that there was a particularly large amount of information available. A significant amount of time was spent fielding the nobleman's own questions: about Maddy and Philippe, and especially their relationship with their elder sister on the Imperial throne; about Alistair and his reasons for returning to Denerim in such a hurry, leaving behind his Queen; and repeatedly returning to seek assurances as to whether Maddy could indeed heal his Blighted lands.

On the last one, at least, Zevran was happy to indulge him; using it as a way to slip past any other questions he didn't fancy answering. The information he extracted in return held significant interest, and it was in a thoughtful mood that he turned his steps to his room in order to bathe and change. It would, perhaps, be too much to say that he was abstracted; the assassin within never really slept. However, he was sufficiently engaged to be taken by surprise when he entered his bedchamber to find a somewhat forlorn-looking figure seated on the edge of his bed, clutching a folded piece of parchment which bore a broken, and extremely recognisable, seal.

Zevran froze in the doorway, unwilling to hear this news. The last month or more, since they left Redcliffe, had been good, better than any other period of his life, despite his unusual state of celibacy. He was loathe to see that fragile state of affairs shattered, and the fragments of wax bearing the Imperial seal of Orlais did not bode well. Neither did Philippe's eyes, when he raised them, their vivid blue dulled by despair. Zevran closed the door softly and moved to sit in a chair across from his Prince. He desperately wanted to help, but had no idea how; comfort was something that happened to other people. Consequently, when he spoke, his voice was cool, remote, and inwardly he winced to hear it.

"Well, _mio principe_, are your nuptials imminent?"

Long, slim fingers clenched tightly on thick, expensive paper. "It would seem so." Phiippe's soft voice was as measured as always, but the modulation was wrong, the mellow note missing, displaying the strain he was under. "My dear sister Celene informs me that, as I have expressed no preference of my own, she has found a bride for me: an Antivan princess."

"Hmm, is that so? You have her name?" The embossed sheet was passed over and Zevran scanned through the few lines. "Principessa Luciana di Treviso. Ah, yes. You, know, I am amazed she still lives; most of her house were culled by the Crows a few years back, a bloody affair as her brother had his own cell. Unfortunately for him, his cousin inherited a much larger cell and had a fancy to call the Palazzo di Treviso his own. The sister must have worked hard to ingratiate herself with her dear cousin, in order to survive." Zevran carefully refolded the paper, the crackle of parchment loud in the excruciating silence. In the end, he offered the only comfort he knew. "Say but one little word, _caro mio_, and she will trouble you no more."

His offer seemed to take a moment to sink in, before Philippe's gaze focussed sharply. "You-" He shuddered. "No." A tiny flash of his usual humour peeped through. "Unless, of course, you are offering to rid me of Celene?"

"A rather difficult assignment, that." The defeated slump of Philippe's shoulders was making Zev's chest hurt. He wanted to take the world apart to protect this gentle, chivalrous man who had treated him with such respect and devotion. No-one had ever behaved so towards the assassin; even Melissa, who had cared for him in her own way, had not treated him so. "But, I will try if you wish me to."

As every instinct in his body was screaming that such an attempt was a death sentence, this offer was far greater than his Prince could ever know, but Philippe's head was shaking from side to side, dismissing the notion. "No, _mon amour_, I have no desire to see your head on a pike over the battlements of the Imperial palace."

"_Caro_, this is not such a bad match. The _Principessa_ will not be upset by your preferences, provided she is treated with the respect an Antivan lady is entitled to. In my country, such things are understood and accepted, even more so than in Orlais." Zevran arose from his chair, moving to stand before where Philippe sat. "There is no further need for you to deny yourself, _mio principe_." His hand ran gently, caressingly, over the auburn hair of the man looking up at him. "No need to deny either of us."

Philippe grasped Zevran's other hand, pulling him down to sit beside him. He slipped a hand around the assassin's waist, squeezing affectionately. "It has never been for the sake of an unknown betrothed that I have held back, my dear one, but for you. As I said before, I will not make you the whore of royalty."

Last time this had been said, it had made Zevran furious. The time they had spent together since had brought him to understand that it was respect for him that made Philippe think this way. It was frustrating, but he understood it. This did not, for one second, prevent him from attempting to find a way around it. "Ah, but consider: an Antivan Princess will see no shame in it. The addition of a fully-trained Crow to her household, in any capacity, shall bestow a cachet upon you both, improving the standing of your house. I will not be your whore in her eyes, but a badge of your perspicacity and cleverness."

While this wily speech broke down his Prince's resistance, nimble fingers dragged over his scalp, skilfully removing the clasp that held back Philippe's hair and stroking through it. Closed eyes and softened mouth caused by this action were too tempting to Zevran; he leant in enough to kiss the corner of that enticing mouth. Kissing was one of the things that Philippe's stringent standards allowed, but this was the first time Zevran had managed to corner him in a bedroom. So, when his Prince turned into the kiss, Zev made the best of this opportunity, using the hand he had entangled in thick hair to draw them closer together into a relaxed posture that could easily… oh, so easily, result in them lying back on the bed.

As always, Philippe kissed him with a level of warmth and tenderness he had never before known, wrapping his arms around the assassin in a caring cocoon. To be held and kissed so was like a drug to Zevran; prior to sampling it, he had no need of it, but now he could not get enough of the sensation. He retained just enough presence of mind to slip his spare hand into the small of Philippe's back, using it to mould them together as they slowly slipped into a supine position.

The heat and weight of the other man's body against him caused a flare of passion to erupt in Zevran; passion that had been banked down to a smouldering ember during the longest period of celibacy in his adult life. His senses were flooded with information: the scent of Philippe's soap and cologne, the taste of his mouth, the weight of his thigh. And, as he pressed a touch closer, a ridge of heat that informed him that he was not the only one affected. It was Philippe who broke the kiss, dipping his head to trail moist warmth over Zev's throat while-

The timid knock on Zevran's door may as well have been a thunderclap, considering the effect it had. Philippe froze instantly, and almost immediately withdrew, dreamy, lust-filled eyes coming back into sharp focus. Zevran let rip with a string of Antivan curses, striding to the door and flinging it open in such a way as to terrify the pair of serving maids carrying buckets from which steam curled upwards.

"_Che cazzo vuoi_?" he snarled, far too infuriated for either courtesy or the Common language.

"Y-your bath water, ser," stammered one of them, wide-eyed. Zev nodded curtly and allowed them to enter, knowing that the damage was done, the opportunity lost beyond recapture. Philippe was already on his feet, smoothing his doublet and preparing to leave.

Zevran seized his arm as he approached the door, pulling him close enough to murmur in his ear. "Later, _mio principe_, after dinner, yes?"

Even while asking the question, Philippe's body language was informing him of the answer. The moment of passion has passed, and cooler counsel was already prevailing. "It would not be wise, _mon coeur_, I- I am not myself today."

This was, in Zevran's opinion, exactly why today was the best of all possible days for such an assignation. Only once the door closed behind his Prince did he give vent to his frustrated feelings, disregarding the presence of the maids slopping water into the stone bath.

"_M__annaggia!_"

_-oOo-_

Alistair gripped the arms of his ornate throne, and took a deep breath. The woman walking towards him had poisoned her own Templars, of whom he could, so easily, have been one. She had mutilated and publicly burned apostates in his own capital city. She had organised the wholesale reduction of dozens of talented and innocent mages to the level of domesticated animals.

She also, he reminded himself, represented an organisation which, in open warfare, could roll over his army like it didn't exist. This would be, perhaps, the trickiest conversation of his life, walking a fine line between what he had done, and must inform her of, and what he planned, which must be kept quiet for as long as possible.

_Be calm, Alistair. Keep a cool head_.

Grand Cleric Leanna came to a halt before him, flanked by two priestesses. Outside the doors of the audience chamber stood half a dozen Templars, refused admittance by an apologetic but impassive member of the King's Own. From what little Alistair had heard of the altercation from where he sat, it sounded as though the Grand Cleric wasn't very happy about it. That had brightened his day significantly.

"Your Majesty." The minimal dip she offered him in lieu of a bow was as discourteous as the brevity of her greeting. "Why are my Templars being excluded? Are your guards trying to insult the Chantry?"

Alistair deliberately drew out the moment in which he looked her over before answering, noting that one of her priestesses flushed in embarrassment and began a much deeper bow of her own, cut off short when the eyes of her superior flicked her way.

"Perhaps you have forgotten, Your Eminence, that four of your Templars made an attempt upon the lives of myself and my Queen in the Brecilian Forest." Alistair took a breath and went for the throat. "Therefore, you will have to forgive me if I choose not to expose my person to any more of your drug-crazed madmen."

Entertaining though it was to see the Grand Cleric's eyes bulge, widening in shock at the revelation that the King knew one of her secrets, Alistair pressed on, giving her no time to protest.

"That is, in fact, the reason I summoned you here today. Were you aware that disseminating polluted lyrium is perceived by the dwarves to be an insult to their Ancestors?"

Despite being quite obviously caught on the hop, Leanna's chin came up proudly at this. "I serve Divine Andraste; I have no reason to be concerned with their heretical faith."

Alistair was beginning to enjoy himself. "If you had even the faintest understanding of dwarven life, then you would be. You see, Your Eminence, the dwarves perceive lyrium as a gift to them from the Stone, and from the Ancestors who have returned to it. They chose, a thousand years ago, to share that gift with the Chantry in return for certain… concessions." Alistair didn't need Leliana's subtle nudge to prevent him from expanding on what those concessions were. He had mentioned it only so that his personal bard's trained eye could attempt to ascertain whether the Grand Cleric knew the dubious secrets surrounding that deal. "When you chose, for some outlandish reason, to cut your lyrium with deathroot, you broke that ancient contract. Bhelen will, by now, have written to the Divine to inform her that no further deliveries of lyrium will be made to the Chantry."

"_What?_" It seemed likely that Leanna had intended to shout, but what came out was a disbelieving croak. Gathering fury puffed her up like a frog. "They cannot do that. Lyrium must be controlled by the Chantry, it's the _law_."

"Oh?" Alistair could feel himself relaxing, inordinately entertained by her responses. He reminded himself severely that this woman was dangerous. "Whose law?"

The glare she favoured him with was highly inappropriate given his rank. "Considering your upbringing, Sire, I feel sure you know the answer to that perfectly well. The Maker's law, as given to us by Holy Andraste."

"You see, the thing is," began Alistair, his tone dripping with insincere apology, "I don't think the dwarves care about Holy Andraste. Anyway," he continued briskly, "I saw the contracts; they were drawn up by Kordillus Drakon and Paragon Garal after the foundation of the Chantry. Andraste was long gone by that point."

Both supporting priestesses gasped at this, while the Grand Cleric sputtered that Andraste remained with us always. Alistair cut her protestations off, before she could catch up enough to start asking questions.

"Be that as it may, Your Eminence, the fact is that Orzammar will no longer be providing the Chantry with lyrium. I think, before too long, you are going to be finding that a little… awkward, are you not? Not merely here, but all across Thedas."

Her mouth worked, arrogance and fury battling against her clear knowledge of the vulnerable position she had been left in. Alistair wondered how the Divine would take it when she heard what Grand Cleric Leanna had wrought. He wondered even more whether the Divine had been privy to her schemes. Eventually, Leanna permitted a single word to fall reluctantly from her lips.

"Yes."

"Yes, indeed. Therefore, you will no doubt be delighted to hear that there is now a new lyrium contract between Orzammar and Ferelden." Alistair beamed into her face of utter shock. "I knew you'd be pleased. Think how disastrous it would have been if King Bhelen had chosen to accept the bid of a non-Andrastian country. Imagine, for example, having to apply to the Qunari to purchase all the lyrium the Chantry requires."

"You- I-"

Alistair had never seen the Grand Cleric speechless before. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Anders enjoying the spectacle just as much as he was. Eamon stepped smoothly into the breach, withdrawing from his sleeve a list of demands they had drawn up.

"Your Eminence, the Crown has no desire to interrupt the smooth supply of lyrium, however there are a number of matters on which we have some concerns, particularly regarding the treatment of our subjects with magical ability. You may remember our discussion regarding public executions; this subject must now be re-addressed. Also, we have received some alarming intelligence regarding the situation in the Circle Tower."

Alistair sat back to watch his Chancellor press his advantage with consummate political skill, and tried really hard not to smile too openly.

_Bugger it, I've earned this._

He gave Loopy Leanna a wide grin.

_-oOo-_

Antivan translations:

_Che cazzo vuoi_? What the fuck do you want?

_M__annaggia! _A generic expression of frustration; often translated as _damn_, but has no direct translation.


	50. Chapter 50

**_We made it to fifty chapters! Although I knew what I wanted to do with this story when I started, I was new and naive and had no real idea about how much actual text it would take to tell it. I've done my best not to be too verbose, but here we are at nearly 200k words. I only hope and trust that you've all found it to be worth your time. If you've made it this far, I certainly hope so :)_**

**_Thank you all for your support. There are a few of you who review time and time again, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your feedback. You know who you are; I truly appreciate your generosity in giving your time to respond to what you are reading. Regards, Karen xx_**

_-oOo-_

Stepping into King Alistair's receiving room wasn't quite as intimidating an experience as it had been last time, but Shianni's mouth was still dry with nerves. Kalli was crap at letter-writing and, in the five months since leaving Denerim, had only managed two measly letters that could be summed up as _'I'm well, and learning a load of stuff'_. The arrival of the King's messenger, summoning Valendrian and her to the palace, had worried Shianni, despite Valendrian's reassurances. You could never be completely certain with Kalli; perhaps she had done something… violent… and upset the Queen.

Still, the King seemed as friendly as always, offering them a seat and some tea. He looked weary and a bit rumpled, his shirt open at the neck and his fine velvet doublet only half-laced. Beside him, Arl Eamon was precise as a pin and stiff-backed as any _shem_ noble; in the King's absence the Arl had ordered a number of improvements to the alienage, but had never once come to see the results for himself.

"Hahren Valendrian, Shianni." The King's cheerful nod and smile were as engaging as she remembered. It made Shianni's head ache with confusion to think that King treated elves with more courtesy than they received from the lowest shem scum in the marketplace. All the way up the scale to the nobles, they got treated worse and worse, until the man at the top toppled the whole tidy structure. She had a feeling that meant something, but she couldn't work out what. "I imagine you're wondering why I asked for you to meet with me."

_Asked_. He probably did, too, although you wouldn't have thought it from the words the snooty messenger spoke. A royal summons was what it was, and who had a better right than he? While Shianni turned this over in her mind, Valendrian answered with his customary courtesy.

"Why yes, Your Majesty, I have to admit that I am. I hope all is well?" It was a guarded request as to whether Kalli had misbehaved, if Shianni had ever heard one, but thankfully the King was still smiling.

"I'm working on it, Valendrian. The fact is, I have made rather an advantageous trade deal for Ferelden, one that is going to create a great deal of jobs in, or close to, all of our cities."

"Congratulations, Sire." Knowing him as she did, Shianni could hear the pent-up excitement in Valendrian's quiet voice. Jobs? If the alienage could snag just a little of the available work, then she could think of half a dozen families straight off the top of her head who would cry with relief. "May I ask what kind of workers will be needed?"

"Mainly shipwrights, dockers, sailors. I'll need guards for secure storage, but I'll use some of my own until I can get some trained. This is a cargo which will _not_ be going astray."

Some of the stronger elves worked as dockhands already; it was hard work, at first, for a race without the upper body strength of the _shem_, but they adapted. They had to. Shianni sat forward slightly in her excitement, caught the somewhat fishy eye of Arl Eamon, and made an effort to relax.

The King continued, "We have a small shipyard here in Denerim, another in Amaranthine and a larger one in Gwaren. None are big enough to serve our needs now. I'm hoping to erect a new one up at Highever, but that depends on… stuff." An anxious crease appeared between his eyes. "Whatever happens, I must get a lot of ships, and fast. That's where I though you may be able to help me."

"I am at your disposal, Your Majesty, but I confess I cannot see how I can assist; I have many willing hands, all eager for paid work, but they do not know how to build ships."

"Not yet." The young monarch, in his rumpled doublet, beamed at them and it was like the sun coming out, eclipsing his earlier cheerful smiles entirely. It occurred to Shianni to wonder how Kalli coped, working so closely with such manly beauty. The King was a shem, true, but… _wow_. "Valendrian, I don't have anywhere near as many shipwrights as I need. I've written to craft halls in several countries, hoping to lure a few over here with the promise of good work, but it's a short-term fix at best. I really need more Fereldan shipwrights. So, I was wondering…" Valendrian was on the edge of his seat now, and Shianni didn't blame him. _Craftsmen_, for Andraste's sake. _No-one_ hired elves to become craftsmen. "I was wondering if you had any bright young men and women, who'd care to take the fastest apprenticeships in the history of Thedas? Not only here in Denerim, but in every city."

"You have master craftsmen willing to teach elves?" Valendrian's tone was sharp, disbelieving. "Forgive me, Sire, but this is unheard of."

The King grinned boyishly. "Well, I won't try to claim that they were happy about it, but yes, I've convinced them." A more serious expression overtook his clear hazel eyes. "Valendrian, you know what people are like. I can't promise that your people will be well-treated. Maker; an awful lot of human apprentices have a tough time, and they are likely to make things even harder for elves. But, once they are trained, they'll be set for life and can train others in their turn.

"I'll need other workers too." The King ticked them off on his fingers. "Dockers, of course; sailors, if you have lads and lasses with itchy feet, there's a lot less prejudice on the seas, I hear; port officials-" He broke off as Arl Eamon cleared his throat. "Yes, Eamon, elven port officials, if they have the book-learning for it, and Valendrian can assure me that they won't be taking backhanders from lyrium smugglers. I'd far rather have honest officials, under the eye of our Hahren here, than some of the dodgy sods we've got at the moment."

"Lyrium!" It was the first word Shianni had said and it was out before she could stop it. "But- the Chantry…"

It was Eamon who answered, fixing both elves with a stern eye. "The Chantry no longer controls the lyrium trade. The news will break soon, no doubt, but for the moment that information must not leave this room."

As Valendrian assured them, in a slightly stunned voice, that they would not say a word, and that his people would be ecstatic to receive so much opportunity for advancement, all Shianni could do was sit and wonder what the _fuck_ had been happening , and just how much of it Kalli had been privy to. She couldn't wait to see her cousin again. The meeting wound on, moving to discussions of the numbers of workers required in each city and of each type. The King sat back, allowing Arl Eamon to pick up this part of the conversation. Only when he and Valendrian came to the beginnings of an agreement, and the Arl began to make noises of imminent dismissal, did she interrupt with the question burning in her mind.

"Your Majesty?" He looked up from the list he was surveying, and cocked a questioning eyebrow at her. "How is Kallian?"

"She was fine when I saw her two weeks ago. Just as ferocious as always; I have absolute confidence in her ability to protect Maddy." The King chuckled. "She was a bit shaken up after what I did to her at Redcliffe, but she's got used to it now, I think."

What he did to her at Redcliffe? Several worrying images danced across Shianni's mind, but she shook them off. The King wasn't that kind of man, and anyway, Kalli would have his balls for breakfast if he tried. "What happened at Redcliffe?"

He raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised. "She didn't write and tell you? Maker's Breath, I know she hates writing, but that takes the biscuit." A twinkle came into his eye, and his lips twitched. The opportunity to tell them this seemed to be causing him some amusement. "I knighted her." The bald statement drew a gasp from Valendrian, an explosive and impolite expletive from Shianni, and a coughing fit from the Arl, who apparently hadn't known either. "She's Ser Kallian now, and Maker help any miscreants she stumbles upon."

Shianni stared at him, shocked to the bone. _I wish Uncle Cyrion could have heard that_. _I really, really do_.

_-oOo-_

_Pollution of the Ancestors' finest gift…_

_The Stone has rejected you, and your contract lies in the dust…_

The strange blunt phrases, masked in the social mores of a dying culture, jumped out at Empress Celene from the letter before her. She raised her eyes to the elderly woman seated ramrod-straight on the chair opposite.

"You received this today, Your Holiness?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, our trade caravan returned from Orzammar with it, together with the… consignment."

"The lyrium consignment?" In answer to the sharp question, the Divine shook her head.

"No, the caravan brought back our consignment of Tranquil. There was no lyrium, just the letter."

"I see." Celene studied her visitor, the highest ranking cleric in Thedas. One did not reach such a position without making some compromises; the Divine was a politician first and foremost, but politics in the real world were different from the internal political ladder that the Divine had clawed her way to the top of. "What is this 'pollution' of lyrium that King Bhelen refers to? Did you know of it?"

"No, Your Majesty." The Divine's eyelid flickered; a lie, how interesting. So the Chantry had been up to something, perhaps some experiment to keep their Templars even further under their heel, and as a result an ancient contract had been broken and was presumably up for grabs. Orlais must move swiftly to secure it, before this knowledge became public. Plans marched across the Empress' mind; she must go immediately to Orzammar and make Bhelen an offer he could not refuse. Few nations were as rich as hers, and dwarves were notoriously greedy.

"Your Majesty?" Celene raised her eyes from the letter, having almost forgotten the presence of the Divine. "You will help me? Make them see sense? The Chantry has always controlled lyrium; it is too dangerous a drug to be freely available. It's the law."

The law. A quaint notion, compared to so much wealth and power. Celene smiled reassuringly. "Of course; I will speak with King Bhelen myself. You should stay here; given the tone of his letter, your presence may infuriate him."

"If you say so, Your Majesty, but I should send one of my Revered Mothers with you, and my Knight Commander." Watchdogs, to ensure her compliance. Really, the Divine, and indeed the entire Chantry, had become far too complaisant if they believed that would make a scrap of difference.

"Of course," she murmured. As the Divine stood, preparing to leave, a thought occurred to her. "One other thing, Your Holiness. My agents have been disseminating false rumours in Ferelden, as we discussed. You must ensure that _no-one_ within the Fereldan Chantry makes any attempt to follow up on those rumours. I want no move made against my sister, Madeleina, until after the birth of her children. When your Templars, _Orlesian_ Templars, arrive to take her into custody on charges of apostasy, we must give her husband the minimum amount of reason to object."

"I shall write to Grand Cleric Leanna personally, Your Majesty."

"Good." _I want you home, little sister. You are far too precious a resource to slip through my fingers so easily._

_-oOo-_

The fields were dreadful, worse than Lothering, and even the overlay of winter frost couldn't detract from the noisome filth it covered. Maddy clung to Philippe's arm as she picked her way through the vile growths; she was taking much more care, now that she was beginning to thicken noticeably. She was sure that the strange, squirmy sensation she had felt in her belly last night was one of the babies moving. It was dreadful that Alistair wasn't here for it; she had stroked her stomach and thought of how his eyes would have filled with wonder.

A crowd had gathered to watch the demonstration; she could feel their eyes upon her, their desperation. When she had explained to Arl Wulff about the planned Landsmeet and their reasons for it, his response had been blunt. _Help my people, restore my land and you have my vote_. Alistair wouldn't be wholly happy about that; she would have to return here when she was heavy with child, otherwise the ground would not be ready for the spring planting.

Maddy closed her eyes, leaning on her brother's velvet sleeve, feeling his warmth and reassurance beside her. Since Alistair left, she'd realised how much she had been relying upon her husband. Despite her rank, she had never played the part of a Princess, and hadn't realised exactly what she was getting into by marrying a King. Thank the Maker that Ferelden was so informal; she'd been able to follow Alistair around, smile, be polite and get by. Now she was expected to be a Queen in her own right, and the whole business made her want to run to the nearest tree, climb up it, and refuse to come down.

She extended her senses, taking a half-step into the place where the land dreamed. Just as in other places she had healed, the land slept deeply, but sun, wind and water offered up their goodness. Taking a deep breath, Maddy stepped further into the _Setheneran_, making herself a channel for nutrients to flow into the sleeping soil. It was easier, much easier, than it had been in Lothering; practice did indeed make perfect. There was no need to crouch, to engage with the dreadful pustules of the Blight. She felt Philippe's arm slip around her waist to steady her as she swayed, and leaned gratefully against him. Murmurs were beginning to rise from the crowd, heralding success. She heard a raucous cry of _mage_, bitten off into silence; Arl Wulff had given Cedric and his men free rein, there would be no dissenting voices today.

Minutes later, Maddy opened her eyes, blinking in the bright winter sun, to resounding cheers. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and the gentle comfort of Anders' rejuvenation spell would have been very welcome, but in compensation, a vast stretch of clean brown met her eyes, cold and drowsy, but healthy and ready for the spring.

"Come, ma _chérie_, into the warm." Philippe began to lead her back to the path, Kalli and Zev taking up positions around them. "We shall return to the castle and have hot tea before the fire, _n'est ce-pas_?"

Arl Wulff was striding towards them, a comet trail of townspeople behind him. She heard a snapped order from Cedric and a contingent of the King's Own moved into position in front of their Queen, allowing the Arl to approach, but keeping the mob back.

"Your Majesty…" The gruff old nobleman seemed shaken, his eyes moist with something more than the bitter wind. "I had heard… but I didn't realise just how…" He pulled himself together, taking her hand and bowing deeply to kiss her fingers. "You have my support, ma'am. And, if I hear a whisper against you on my land, the culprits will swing for it."

"Will you come to Highever with me, Your Grace?" Her voice was little more than a thread of sound; it was an effort to speak. All Maddy wanted was to curl up somewhere warm and doze, but this was the very best time to ask. "I have a proposition to put before both you and the Teyrn, and then we can all continue on to Denerim together."

"Whatever you desire, my Queen."

_-oOo-_

Spacious though the guest bedroom at West Hill was, it felt confining, the walls closing in around him. Ever since the previous evening, in Zevran's room, Philippe had been restless, his thoughts churning in never-ending circles.

_I was a fool to allow such closeness to develop. Where can it possibly go?_

Turn at the window, fingers trailing across the polished wood of the table beside it. Six steps from here took him to the fireplace. He tried to imagine Zevran in his chateau at Ghislain; the assassin would be bored out of his wits in a month.

_And so would you, now_.

From the fireplace to the bed was another eight paces, his heavy dressing robe brushing the bed frame as he passed. For ten years, since his retreat from the Imperial Court, Philippe had embraced the life of a rural princeling, governing the sleepy province to the best of his ability. He'd acted as guardian to Maddy as she grew from a wild child, to a tomboy teen, and finally to a young lady uninterested in the vicious cut and thrust of Imperial life. But now…

Now, snared by her undeniably beautiful King, his beloved sister was Queen of Ferelden, and as a result they had all been plunged into this wild adventure. Taking on the Chantry, no less! The prospect of returning to Ghislain, of picking up the pieces of his old life, held no savour. To have to do so with a strange woman, an Antivan Princess, as his new wife, was intolerable. And Zevran…

Seven paces took him from the bed to the door, which was always a tricky moment. His hand brushed the door handle as he fought the urge to open it, to go to Zev, to just give in, to lose himself and his fears in the arms of the man he felt such passion and need for. Especially since last night…

Philippe unglued his fingers from the door handle and turned, taking the measured paces necessary to return to the fireplace. He rested his head against the mantel and closed his eyes, fighting his rebellious body. Oh, the floodgates were really opened now. Rampant heat surged through him, melting his resistance. For ten years he'd been celibate, refusing casual encounters, unable any longer to indulge himself without trust.

_You do trust him; you know you do_.

Philippe had been attracted to Zevran from their first meeting, as would anyone faced with such a beautiful, self-assured piece of physical perfection. Without respect and trust, though, attraction meant nothing; that lesson had been learnt young, and at bitter cost. In a back-alley in Denerim, with corpses cooling at their feet, the flirtatious sensualist whom Philippe had been keeping at arm's length had miraculously vanished, replaced by a man considerate enough to step away from an incautious embrace. A seed of trust had been planted that night and, in the months that followed, the assassin's every action had fed that seed.

Philippe pushed himself away from the mantel and began another slow circuit of the room. Blood was the problem here, the blood of emperors which ran in his veins. Yes, he could take Zevran as a lover, yes, he could take him back to Ghislain – assuming that Zevran was prepared to remain with him when he returned – and yes, he could even accept the Crow's argument that an Antivan princess would find the arrangement acceptable. But however many times he circled the problem, Philippe could not get away from the fact that, by his own personal standards, he would feel that he was not offering Zevran the level of respect that he patently deserved.

_I love him. I do not know if he feels the __same – perhaps not – but I cannot__ treat him so. I _cannot _take him to Court and watch the nobles sneer at my elven whore, and nor can I hide away, as if ashamed of him._

The only possible way Philippe could see out of this situation was to renounce his heritage. Give up his title, hand his estates back to the Imperial Crown…

_And then what?_

Money was not a problem; he'd inherited a modest private fortune, separate from the income of the estate. They would be able to do, more or less, whatever they wished.

_And when he leaves you, Philippe? He's had many lovers; sooner or later he will grow weary of your company._

That thought brought him up short, to sit on the edge of the bed with a bump. To give up everything, to hand back all that he'd inherited from his parents… It required a level of commitment in return that he just couldn't see Zevran offering to him, a set of expectations that it would be unfair to demand from such short acquaintance. He groaned, dropping his head in his hands.

There was no solution to this. Principessa Luciana might already be on a boat to Orlais; Celene would want the matter settled as quickly as possible, and the Empress was a determined woman. Once they reached Denerim, he would have little choice but to say his goodbyes and take ship to Val Royeaux.

He'd run out of time.

It had been a decade since the last time Philippe gave full rein to his feelings, crying as though his heart would break. Seated on the edge of his bed, in a lonely room, he did so once again.

_-oOo-_


	51. Chapter 51

_-oOo-_

"Arl Teagan."

The voice was cultured and vaguely familiar. He turned, eyebrows raised; in the Gnawed Noble one did not usually expect to be accosted with a stranger's hand on one's sleeve. The culprit was a young man, bearing the facial lines of one much older, and leaning on a cane; Sighard's son Os-

_No_, thought, Teagan, _he's_ _Bann Oswyn, now_.

"Forgive me, Arl Teagan, but I wouldn't advise going in there; Ceorlic and Loren are bemoaning the fate of the nation."

"Ah, I appreciate your concern for my sanity then." Teagan released the handle of the sitting-room door and smiled at the young Bann. Oswyn looked inordinately relieved, enough so for Teagan to wonder how many of the nobles had spurned his company since his turbulent elevation to his father's seat. "Two of the worst bores in Ferelden are not to be undertaken lightly." He refrained for admitting that it had been his specific intention to engage with the notorious pair; rumour said that they ranked high in support of the Chantry, and Alistair needed information. "Perhaps instead you'd care to take a drink with me, Bann Oswyn?" He ushered the young noble to a secluded table and beckoned a waitress.

"My thanks." Oswyn lowered himself into a chair with exaggerated care, setting aside his cane with a sigh once he was settled. Teagan ordered some ale and wine, turning his attention to his guest once the waitress left.

"I imagine it has been difficult for you these past months, Bann Oswyn? It's never an easy thing to be obliged to step into such a role unexpectedly." The conversational lead was deliberately neutral, leaving Oswyn the option to brush lightly over the horrendous circumstances surrounding his elevation, and to make instead the usual small-talk that any noble would about the difficulties associated with controlling a section of the Bannorn.

However, the look he received from the young lord was disconcertingly direct. "It hasn't been easy, but… Arl Teagan, I hear that you stand close to the King. I wonder… would you be willing to pass along my thanks to him?" Teagan could only assume that his face expressed his surprise, from the way that Oswyn hurried on, blushing like the boy he still, in many ways, was. "Without his mercy – and that of his Queen – my family's heritage and reputation would have been utterly destroyed. Yes, it's difficult, and I miss my father, but at least I have the opportunity to rebuild what was lost. I've wanted to thank him ever since, but a letter seemed insufficient." The waitress returned, and Oswyn waited until she had served them and departed before continuing. "Both King Alistair and Queen Madeleina have my eternal gratitude." He sipped at his tankard. "My men caught some Orlesian weasel spreading lies about the Queen in Dragon's Peak last week, and I came down hard on the culprit. I won't have any such filth spouted on my land."

"Orlesian?" Teagan frowned. Over half of those who Leliana had discovered spreading the same rumours, and who now languished in Fort Drakon awaiting his Majesty's pleasure, were also Orlesian. As so many of the rumours in Denerim were being spread between sailors and traders, they hadn't thought anything of it, but Dragon's Peak was further inland. He made a mental note to mention it to the bard. "Do you have the man in custody?"

"I don't. I was tempted to hang him; if I'd found a Fereldan saying such things of the Queen then he would have swung, I can assure you of that. As an Orlesian, I suppose he's entitled to hold a poor opinion of our royalty, if he pleases, but for the crime of spreading treasonous rumours to good Fereldans I had him severely flogged and flung outside my borders." Oswyn's eyes flashed with righteous indignation, and Teagan hid a smile. It seemed that Alistair and Maddy had gained a champion.

"Very proper," he approved, soothingly.

Oswyn fortified himself with another swallow of ale, and his indignant flush gradually receded. "Arl Teagan, may I ask what's actually going on? King Alistair has called a Landsmeet, but no-one seems certain why, although there are plenty of rumours. Yesterday, I saw with my own eyes a wagon train roll into Denerim bearing crates marked with the _mabari rampant_, and with that strange mark that the Orzammar crown use on their goods. I heard someone say that they were filled with weapons. Tell me, are we going to war with someone?"

_Weapons._ That was one of the most popular rumours for the early shipments being moved from Orzammar to Denerim by those dwarves who lived in the surface clans. No-one seemed to have even considered that the, supposedly inviolable, lyrium trade could have changed hands, although Teagan suspected the Chantry had leaked the information to their most ardent supporters. The news was going to break in a matter of hours anyway; the first ships, pressed into service from the royal fleet until more suitable ones could be found, already sat in the harbour awaiting the loading of their shipments. There was, at this stage, little harm in breaking the news to Alistair's stauncher allies.

"No Oswyn, it's not weapons, it's lyrium." The young noble gaped at him, clearly caught unawares. "The Chantry has been up to some very dirty tricks these last few months, and one of those has made King Bhelen refuse to trade with them."

"_Maker's Breath_."

Teagan waited while Oswyn processed the information, before continuing. "I can't go into details about how the Chantry had behaved, Bann Oswyn, or even how the King intends to respond. The situation is too delicate right now. But in all honesty, if you genuinely want to thank King Alistair and Queen Madeleina for their mercy to you and your father, then give them your vote at the Landsmeet. It's the finest gift they could receive from you."

"Then they shall have it." The response was immediate and unhesitating, bringing a smile to Teagan's face. Time would teach caution, as it did to all those who inherited control of the Bannorn, but right now Oswyn's boyish zeal was refreshing.

"Thank you, Bann Oswyn," he said gravely, "I honour you for your loyalty to the Crown."

_-oOo-_

The journey from West Hill to Highever took only a single day, during which time Maddy kept an anxious eye on her brother; she had never seen Philippe so wan and pale. For the first part of the journey he rode beside her in silence, forsaking his usual spot at Zevran's side. When she finally ventured to ask him what was wrong, Philippe's demeanour changed utterly; for the rest of the day he chattered his usual diverting nonsense, but with a feverish air that left her more worried than ever.

The city of Highever was an agreeable surprise, as unlike grim Gwaren, or filthy Denerim, as it was possible to be. The streets were clean and well-kept; the soft grey stone of the buildings was warm and welcoming. As was the Teyrn, whom she only vaguely remembered meeting during her wedding celebrations. Teyrn Fergus was sturdy and dark, with a no-nonsense manner and a friendly smile. This came as a relief to Maddy, who had feared what greeting she would get from Melissa Cousland's brother. It had been in her mind that there may be some awkwardness in meeting the brother of her husband's dead lover, and his warm welcome relieved her mind, even though it was likely due mainly to politics.

The Teyrn offered a similarly bluff greeting to Arl Wulff. If he was surprised to see his vassal arrive in the Queen's train he gave no sign of it that Maddy could see. Following her demonstration in the fields of West Hill, Wulff's demeanour had changed utterly, driven by new hope of seeing his land renewed. The following evening she outlined for him a far more daring plan, one that made her hands sweat with nerves: to seed the land between West Hill and Highever with trees, good strong oak suitable for ship-building. If Teyrn Fergus agreed, and she really couldn't imagine him refusing, then the agricultural focus of this part of Ferelden would diminish, giving way to lumber, shipyards and all the rich pickings of a major port.

Wulff was cock-a-hoop, any surprise or concern regarding lyrium or the Chantry swept away in the grandeur of this vision for his home. He would vote however they wished at the Landsmeet, she had no doubt of that. To be offered so much, after being reduced to so little… she could sympathise with his eagerness, willing to see it as hope for his people, rather than as greed for himself.

Maddy was doing her best not to think about the trees, about the silent screams she'd heard at Gwaren. Alistair was right, she told herself sternly, ships would be built, and trees must be felled to make them; it was only a matter of _where_ they would be built. Common sense wasn't helping with the guilt, though. It wasn't helping at all.

_-oOo-_

_To Her Holiness the Divine_

_Appointed Head of the Andrastian Chantry in Thedas,_

_Greetings_

_Some months ago, we requested that you appoint for us a Grand Cleric more in tune with the needs of the faithful in Ferelden. No doubt it was the exigencies of your High Office which prevented you from responding to our request, either in word or deed._

_It has proved unfortunate that you did not find it possible to accommodate us in this matter. The situation here has become dire and, as a direct result of the actions of Grand Cleric Leanna, Orzammar has declared the ancient contract which provides lyrium to the Chantry null and void. We may only hope and trust that the Grand Cleric was, in this matter, acting upon her own cognizance, as it would reflect ill indeed upon the Chantry were she not._

_With Orzammar lying largely below our land of Ferelden, the consequences of a bidding war for the lyrium trade filled us with alarm, as did the knowledge that the only remaining contract operated between the heretical Chantry of Tevinter and Orzammar. It was not in our interests to see either an extension of the existing contract, allowing the Tevinter Chantry to entirely control trade of such a vital substance, or to see open warfare break out over the securing of an alternative contract. Therefore, you will be relieved to hear that the matter is resolved in a manner that prevents both of these catastrophes._

_A fresh contract has been drawn up between Ferelden and Orzammar, to the satisfaction of both. It is our intention to ensure that the distribution of lyrium throughout Thedas continues without interruption or disturbance. We will therefore require from you full information regarding the quantities required for the smooth running of the Chantry. I imagine that these will be considerable, and the Ferelden Crown will do what it can to accommodate your needs at a reasonable price. All shipments will be checked and marked with the combined Royal Seals of Ferelden and Orzammar, ensuring the purity of the lyrium. Any nation or organisation found to be selling or distributing lyrium where these seals are not intact shall incur our displeasure, and their deliveries shall be discontinued for as long as it pleases us to do so._

_May the Maker bless and keep you._

_Alistair Theirin _

_By the Grace of the Maker, King of Ferelden_

_Written at our Palace in Denerim, this twenty eighth day of Firstfall, in the second year of our reign._

The Divine picked up the scrap of parchment which had fallen out of the letter when the seal was broken. It bore only a few words, in the same handwriting:

_Aren't lyrium mines fascinating places?_

She folded her hands, resting them on the other letter from Ferelden, which had arrived on the same ship. This was from Grand Cleric Leanna, containing much of the same information, together with a great deal of hysterical waffle about the Chantry's Divine Right to lyrium and an impertinent, and hasty, demand for an Exalted March against Ferelden.

_Lyrium mines…_ The threat was clear enough; King Alistair had uncovered one of the Chantry's best kept secrets, and unless the Divine accepted the new status quo, he would expose them. Never mind that the lyrium contract had now changed hands: one could not sweep aside a thousand years of slavery on so flimsy an excuse.

A note must be sent post-haste to intercept Empress Celene before she reached Orzammar. Her Imperial Majesty would be furious at this news, but even more so if she arrived at the gates of Orzammar in ignorance, and appeared foolish before King Bhelen.

Regarding the Ferelden Chantry… the Divine frowned down at her clasped hands, considering the situation. Rolling out the new regime in such a small and backward country first, as a test case, had seemed like a good plan, but it appeared that Leanna had made a hash of the endeavour. With the leverage which the lyrium trade gave him, King Alistair was already making demands regarding the disposition of both Templars and mages in Ferelden; it was curious that one who was, himself, Templar-trained should exhibit such sympathy with users of magic.

There could be no Exalted March of course, that much was certain; the situation required careful handling, far more careful than the Grand Cleric could provide. A Holy Legate must be appointed, one subtle and experienced enough to speak as the voice of the Divine. She had just such a one in mind, someone she could trust to make a cool and considered judgement on what could be salvaged from this mess. Immediate arrangement must be made for an entourage of such pomp and dignity that there should be no doubt of the power of the Chantry. There were a great many highly devout nobles in Ferelden; the Legate would well know how to utilise such a resource.

_-oOo-_

"Orlais?"

Alistair put his fork down, frowning across the table at Leliana. Since returning to Denerim, the King and his group of friends and advisors – Leliana, Anders and Teagan - had got into the habit of dining together, just as they had on the road. It was a good way to catch up on their news during this hectic time. And, it helped him to not miss Maddy quite so much.

"The rumours are coming from Orlais?" Thoughts flickered through his head and he snagged one. "You think it's the Divine?"

"Possibly." Leliana speared a small piece of carrot on her fork, eating it with a delicacy that had never failed, even at the darkest, messiest moments of the Blight. "Either our rumourmongers don't know the source, or I am not skilled enough to get to their knowledge." She looked haunted for a moment, but the Bard was in residence, Alistair had seen her often enough now to recognise the hard shell that Leliana encased herself in for this work. "It would be easier if Zevran were here."

He didn't doubt it; the assassin shied away from nothing. Bearing in mind exactly what these rumours threatened his wife with, Alistair was quite prepared to push aside any squeamishness he himself may feel about putting prisoners to the question. "What _have_ you been able to discover?"

"That most of those we hold are mere gossips; sailors or merchants who picked up a juicy titbit on the docks of Val Royeaux and did not have the sense to keep their tongue between their teeth in the taverns of Denerim. One or two know more: if what they say is true, then they were paid to spread this rumour, paid by quiet nondescript men in private rooms of taverns in Val Royeaux."

Anders piped up from the other end of the table. "Well, I can't think of anyone else in Orlais who'd have any reason to do this other than the Divine. This is revenge for opposing them, Alistair, you mark my words."

"I don't see that." Teagan poured more wine, and twisted the goblet between his fingers, frowning. "It will have taken weeks to get these rumours as wide-spread as they are. Has the Divine been aware all this time that Ferelden is intending to secede? Or that Alistair was stealing away the lyrium trade? Surely not, or they would have taken far more direct action."

"Whoever it is, they are fighting a losing battle; if anything, the rumours about Maddy are escalating in a totally different direction." Leliana paused to chew and swallow her food, and Alistair made the mistake of putting his wine to his lips. "It's being said that she is Andraste reborn." Wine spattered over his plate, his napkin and a sizeable bit of table.

"_What?_"

_-oOo-_


	52. Chapter 52

_-oOo-_

"You are dining with the King again this evening?"

"Hmm?" Teagan looked up briefly from the report he was reading. "I expect so, unless you need me for something, Eamon?"

"No, no... I was just wondering." _Just wondering what is said at these dinners, wondering when exactly I was shoved out, replaced. _Not that he wasn't busy, more so than ever, in fact. The lyrium trade consumed his days with meetings, deals, correspondence. Every nation in Thedas had been sent a carefully crafted letter explaining the new situation, and replies were flooding in. Some of them were arriving in the person of smooth-talking ambassadors, some seeking a beneficial alliance, others looking for a weakness to exploit. All this, while the usual business of running a country continued unabated.

Teagan crossed his feet on a footstool, settled back into his chair beside the fire in Eamon's office, and exchanged one report for another from the stack next to his chair.

"Alistair should give you an office of your own."

His brother looked up sharply, blue eyes surprised above the hawk nose he'd inherited from their father. "If I'm in your way, Eamon…"

"No, no." For the second time Eamon found himself expressing a firm negation that was not quite in line with what he was feeling. Having Teagan share his space was quite pleasant, actually, reminding him of simpler times. But- It was just-

He tried a different tack. "You've become quite close to the King, during your journey, then?" To the _King. When did I start thinking of him like that, rather than as Alistair?_

Teagan set aside the report and folded his hands on his stomach, regarding his brother in a way that made him want to squirm. "Is there something on your mind, Eamon? Something you want to discuss?"

_Would you like a list?_ Since the K- since _Alistair's_ return, Eamon had been made uncomfortably aware that the young man he'd nursed through his first year of kingship, the same young man he'd carted off to Orlais to find a bride, had vanished sometime in the last few months. Alistair turned to Eamon for advice only on certain matters now, matters of the administration of the country, but not of its intrigues. For that, he seemed to prefer the company of a very particular group of people, most of whom Eamon would rather _not _see dabble their fingers in politics.

Maker knew that he both loved and respected Teagan, but he was a babe in arms compared to some of the people he was being pitted against. Leliana certainly worked hard, and was both subtle and clever, but she was too close to the King; Alistair should know better than to allow his Spymaster so much rope. And, as for Anders… the mere presence of the mage in the room was enough to set Eamon's teeth on edge. He was naïve, and pushy, had all the political sense of Madeleina's pet cats (which had been making life in the palace hideous during her absence) and appeared to do no work at all. The news that the Antivan assassin appeared to have also inveigled himself into the Royal circle was merely the icing on a singularly unpleasant cake.

Eamon dragged his attention away from his sour thoughts and focussed on Teagan's question. There was one matter which was certainly on his mind, very much so, in fact. He burned to understand exactly what had happened, what momentous thing had occurred, that they were all so peculiarly averse to talking about.

"Teagan, about Madeleina..."

_oOo-_

"_Mon frère_, we need to talk, I think."

Their time in Highever was coming to a close, the discussions with the Teyrn having gone in a predictable fashion. This Teyrn Fergus seemed a good man, genuinely concerned with his people – even Kallian had reluctantly admitted that the Highever alienage wasn't the worst she had seen – and he'd be a fool not to see just how much wealth she was offering to bring into his Teyrnir. It had been agreed that they would thrash out as many additional details as possible on the road to Denerim; the Landsmeet loomed, and it wouldn't do for the Queen to be the last to arrive. She had not, of course, told him exactly what they would be voting on, just as she had not with Wulff. The dark-haired, dark-eyed nobleman, who looked startlingly like the portrait of his famous sister which hung in the Great Hall, had seemed to understand the situation: _vote with us and we can make you wealthy and your Teyrnir prosperous_. Maddy hated having to hold people to ransom so, but for Alistair's sake - and that of all those poor people in the Circle Tower - she would do what she must.

Therefore, when she entered Philippe's room and spoke to him, she found a flurry of packing in progress. After taking a look at her face, her brother dismissed the servants and patted the edge of the bed, the only part not covered in folded shirts and doublets.

"Of course, _chérie, _what is on your mind?" His tone was light, but she was not deceived; her beloved brother, her dearest darling Philippe, was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Unfortunately, she had no idea how to begin.

"This trip is nearly over," she said, more for something to break the silence than from any real desire to talk about it. "We'll be home again in a few days."

Philippe's veiled expression suggested that this was the wrong tack. "Yes... home." He fidgeted with the velvet collar of a folded garment beside him, and peeped up at his sister with a touch of humour. "Just imagine what horrors the Palace gardeners may have incurred in your absence, my love. Indeed, you shall be obliged to take up residence in your tree for the foreseeable future in order to correct their depredations. How happy you shall be."

It was such a forced version of his usual banter that it wrung Maddy's heart, and although she responded in kind, she also captured his restless hand in hers. "Just think, though, _mon cher_, in Denerim is an Orlesian pastry chef, your gift to us, and an inexhaustible supply of chocolat. No more of these heavy meat breakfasts and ale,_ ale_, at the breakfast table."

"Upon your arrival you shall no doubt find that Alistair has ordered him only to make those abominable cheese straws he dotes upon." Philippe's thumb rubbed across her hand, reminding her of how Alistair always did so, and a wave of homesickness for her husband washed over her. "You chose well,_ ma soeur_." Her brother released her, and abruptly withdrew to stand before the window, his back to the room. "I shall have no concern about leaving you in Alistair's hands."

A cold hand clenched around her heart. "Leaving, Philippe? You said you would stay until after the babies are born. In fact, I would prefer it if you remained for their naming ceremony. You will stand as their sponsor, I hope." Before he could respond, she rushed ahead. "After all, the passage to Orlais will be appalling at this time of year, _n'est ce-pas_?"

"I-" His gaze was still fixed upon the aspect outside the window, but the rigidity of his posture betrayed him. "Maddy, my- my _bride _is on her way from Antiva to Orlais. I must join her there."

"I see." She didn't bother to protest; just as she had no option but to go to the Imperial Court in Val Royeaux to meet Alistair at Celene's behest, so too must Philippe dance to their powerful sister's tune. "If I may ask... will Zevran be accompanying you?" She knew that such a pointed question would not be to her brother's taste, reserved as he was, but the affection he displayed with the assassin was obvious, far more so than he would ever usually countenance. In the face of this, and given the urgency of her need to be assured that Philippe would not be going to this ordeal unsupported, Maddy didn't hesitate to overstep her bounds.

"No."

The bald statement was so unlike her brother that Maddy stuttered over her instinctive protest. "You- I mean- Have you _asked_ him?"

"Asked him what, Maddy?" Philippe turned to her then, his face set in lines of pain. "To come be my catamite, my elven whore, in a quiet country chateau where he would go slowly insane with boredom?" He shook his head in a slow, decided negative. "I would not subject him to such an ordeal. Nor do I desire to have the tattered remnants of my pride destroyed by his refusal."

"I... understand." And, she did. She understood perfectly. Her beloved brother, her sweet, loving, caring Philippe, who had always been there when she needed him, was going to make a lonely martyr of himself.

This wouldn't do, at all.

_-oOo-_

The news that a ship flying the sun symbol of the Chantry stood in port, and had disgorged a Holy Legate, supported by many Sisters, Templars and clerks, tore through Denerim, causing huge speculation.

Barmen, leaning on wooden countertops and dispensing free wisdom with overpriced ale, said that King Alistair had overstepped the mark this time and no mistake; here was the might of the Chantry, come to take back the lyrium that was theirs by right. Washerwomen, gossiping over steaming tubs, said that the Legate had come to do honour to Ferelden's beloved Queen, touched by the hand of Andraste herself, as everyone knew! Noblemen stroked their beards and looked thoughtful; lucrative though the thriving new trade seemed to be, and much though they - to a man - wanted a finger in that pie, they nevertheless resolved to inform their seneschals to pay additional tithes to the Chantry... just in case.

Brother Guido knew none of this and neither did he care. Only one thing interested him in this dismal land, and that was to assess the situation here and put in place as much damage control as possible. A small start may be made immediately; when Grand Cleric Leanna stepped forward to greet him on the dingy little dock, he proffered the embroidered sash of his office, ceremoniously lifting it away from his hip. Her shocked scowl told him much about her, even while she obediently went to one knee to kiss the sun symbol. It was not usual to force a high-ranking cleric to make such an obeisance; in any civilised land, those watching would read much into such an action.

He doubted any here would have the wit, the learning, or the subtlety to comprehend it.

When the plump, dowdy sister regained her feet he nodded in acknowledgement. "Maker's Blessings upon you, _sorella_." At her bewildered frown he sighed faintly. "Sister, I should say. Come, let us retire to your chantry, I am eager to hear exactly what is occurring."

_-oOo-_

The King's dinner habits included an open invite to his circle to arrive half an hour early for a drink. On this occasion Teagan deliberately arrived in the King's quarters a full hour before dinner, hoping to speak with Alistair alone. The servant who greeted him did not show, by word or gesture, that he considered this behaviour outrageous, but the meticulously polite manner in which he informed the Arl that His Majesty was still bathing was unmistakeable to a man who had been surrounded by servants all his life. Teagan meekly allowed this stickler for etiquette to usher him into Alistair's sitting room and accepted a proffered drink. The King, he was informed, would be with him shortly.

It was no more than ten minutes before Alistair joined him, having clearly dressed in a hurry and with his hair still wet.

"Teagan, has something urgent come up?" He took a drink from the disapproving servant and dismissed him. "Tell me."

Teagan waited until the door closed before responding. "No, not urgent as such. Please accept my apologies for dragging you away from your bath. I was just hoping to speak with you privately, before Anders and Leliana arrived."

"Oh?" Alistair's hazel stare was unfathomable, and he wondered if he'd worded that badly. Perhaps it now seemed as though he was intriguing against the other advisors.

"Please don't think that- I mean, I trust them, but the matter is rather delicate."

The hard edge went out of Alistair's gaze and he turned to the door. Teagan could hear him instructing the servant to take his other guests directly into the dining room today. Upon his return, he flung himself into an armchair. "Now, what's on your mind?"

"It's... well... I was speaking with Eamon today and he asked me questions for which I didn't have answers." Teagan twisted the stem of his goblet between his fingers, finding this unexpectedly difficult. "The thing is, Alistair, Eamon was asking about Maddy."

It was impossible to be certain, but Teagan thought he saw the hard glint return to Alistair's eyes. "Oh? I would have thought that, if he had questions about my wife, he would bring them to me."

Teagan sighed. This wasn't going to get any easier any time soon. "I'm left with the impression that my brother no longer feels that he can approach you as freely as he once did, and so he approached me instead, Not that it made any difference, you understand, as I didn't have the answers he sought."

Alistair raised the ankle of one booted leg onto the knee of the other and regarded his guest with something between a frown and a twinkle. "So, whose curiosity are you here to indulge, Teagan? Yours, or Eamon's?"

"I'm not Eamon's messenger boy, Alistair, I promise you that. I learnt a very long time ago not to be drawn into my brother's intrigues." He raised a hand in response to the full-blown frown on Alistair's face. "Not that I think he's planning intrigues around Maddy... Oh, Maker, I'm making a complete hash of this, aren't I?"

Alistair's sympathetic grin helped to set him at ease. "I can hardly fault you for that, Teagan, I've been making a hash of things most of my life. Just... _tell me_, already."

Formulating his thoughts was difficult, seated as he was with Maddy's husband. Eamon's questions had seemed reasonable in the seclusion of the Chancellor's office, but now...

"Alistair, I've seen what Maddy can do, and I heard from many sources about what happened that first time, in Lothering, but it's still very strange." The guarded expression on Alistair's face suggested that Eamon's suspicions may be more valid than Teagan had thought. He pressed on. "Even more strange is how... how _easily _you all accept it: you, Philippe, Leliana, Anders... even Zevran. A miracle from Andraste, even a repeatable one, isn't that something to inspire awe?" He hadn't expected an immediate response to the question, and he didn't receive one. "Maddy, too, seems to take it in her stride and to_ know _what she can, and cannot, achieve."

A memory tickled at Teagan's mind and he pursued it, seeking to fill the silence. "Do you remember when we were bringing in the harvest, at Redcliffe, and that man approached us, about his wife?" He received a slow nod from Alistair, whose expression had moved from guarded to downright wary. "I don't recall the exact words, but you said something like '_I don't think she can do that'." _He sat back, his boats now thoroughly burnt. This wasn't exactly what Eamon had asked, his brother hadn't been there, hadn't seem how comfortable they all were with these 'miracles'. However, Eamon's enquiries, about whether Alistair and Maddy genuinely believed it to be a gift from Andraste, about whether they had ever questioned it, and whether their advisors knew more than the rest of the world, had set Teagan thinking.

"It made me wonder: how did you know she couldn't help that woman? If it comes to that: what makes Maddy think she can grow a forest? Andraste healing the Blighted land is one thing, but the idea that she, and the Maker, are helping Ferelden with their shipping... it's a bit of a stretch, to be honest."

"What are you asking me, Teagan?" Alistair's voice was gentle, almost sympathetic, but Teagan still squirmed uncomfortably before responding.

"I can't help but wonder if the rumours are true, if she is a mage, after all. I'm pretty certain that's what Eamon is wondering, also." There, he'd said it.

"I might remind you that rumour also claims her to be Andraste reborn... or a blood mage with me in thrall." Alistair shrugged, with apparent nonchalance. "I hope you aren't giving credence to those rumours?" Teagan kept quiet, waiting to see what else his King had to say. "Teagan, I don't know what to say to you. You ask if she's a mage? She isn't. You and I have both seen her heal tainted land with a parcel of Templars stood by. Don't you think they'd notice if she was accessing the Fade?" It was a good point and Teagan nodded in slow agreement before Alistair continued. "Is it a miracle from Andraste? How can we second guess the will of the Maker? What I _do_ know is that healing blighted land is damned useful, and is providing us with a massive amount of additional support at a time when we desperately need it."

It all made sense, even though Teagan felt that he wasn't being told everything. "That's certainly an argument that Eamon would understand. Perhaps you could explain it to him, put his mind at ease?"

Sounds from the antechamber suggested that the other dinner guests were arriving. Alistair cocked his head, listening, and waited until the retreating noise suggested that they were ensconced in the dining-room. "No, I won't." When Teagan began to protest, Alistair waved a hand, interrupting him. "It's not what you think. My reasons for limiting my interaction with Eamon right now are good ones, I can assure you, and have nothing to do with petty grievances or childish rebellion, although I'm sure that's how he sees it."

"He's hurt, Alistair. I know he can be... cold, but he genuinely cares about you."

"He cares for his wife a great deal more." The bald and unexpected comment made Teagan blink, confused. Was Alistair jealous of Eamon's close relationship with his wife? "Teagan, this information does not leave this room, you understand?"

The Arl nodded, still confused.

Alistair stood, taking a hasty turn around the room before continuing, obviously agitated. "I'm putting a great deal of trust in you, Teagan. If you tell your brother..."

"I won't, I swear it. Tell me, please, what the problem is."

Alistair stopped his perambulations, coming to a halt before where Teagan sat, anxious and confused. "My intelligence says that Isolde sits in the pocket of the Chantry."

The statement hung in the air between them. All Teagan could think was, _of course she does, how did I not foresee it?_ She'd always been fervently religious, almost to the point of mania.

"Don't you see? I can't trust Eamon because I can't be sure how discreet he is when talking to his wife."

_-oOo-_

Brother Guido folded his hands on the table before him, fixing his eyes upon the flushed uncomfortable woman before him. "You are certain of this?"

"Yes, Your Holiness." Thankfully, since his first, bitingly acerbic put-down, the Grand Cleric had ceased to decorate her remarks with her wholly unwanted opinions. He had not the smallest desire to listen to the petty lamentations of a clearly unbalanced woman. "Our information comes from a reliable source. King Alistair hopes to sway the Landsmeet towards seceding the Fereldan Chantry from Divine control, and set himself up as Protector."

"Hmm." This news was worse than anticipated, and the weapons at Brother Guido's disposal were depressingly limited. In any ordinary situation, the task before him would be absurdly simple; any number of tried and trusted methods could be used to bring the voting nobles into line. A scattering of abominations, heroically dealt with by trained Templars, rarely failed to focus people's minds on the danger of mages, and the requirement for a strong Chantry. A denunciation of the young King's intentions, masterfully delivered from the Cathedral's pulpit, would lose him adherents. There were other, stronger methods, culminating in the ultimate sanction, the reason that so few set themselves up in opposition to the Andrastrian Chantry: an Exalted March.

Unfortunately two things were tying his hands in this regard, circumstances that had never before occurred: control of lyrium, without which the Chantry could not operate, now lay in the hands of their adversary; and that same adversary, this King Alistair of whom no-one had even heard two years ago, held in his grasp one of the Chantry's greatest secrets. Heavy-handed methods needed to be avoided. He pinned a thoughtful gaze upon Grand Cleric Leanna; the skilful creation of a martyr could work wonders, and she had outlived her usefulness, assuming she ever had any. He couldn't imagine what the Divine had been thinking, appointing such a weak-minded creature. If he could arrange for her to fall at the hands of the Fereldan military or, even better, make it seem that she had been assassinated by the King's agents…

"Tell me of the King's closest agents; I have heard strange tales. Is it true that he has both an Orlesian bard and a member of the _Corvi _at his disposal?" An Antivan himself, from one of the great banking houses of Antiva City, Brother Guido knew the value of a highly-trained Crow. In fact, his own cadre should, by tomorrow, be placed in Denerim, ready to do his will if needed.

She sniffed disapprovingly. "So I am told, although the Crow is in the provinces with the Queen."

_Ah yes, the Queen_. That was a subject of even more interest. Rumours abounded concerning the youngest sister of Empress Celene, and the Legate could not deny a frisson of curiosity concerning her abilities. "Have you yourself seen Queen Madeleina perform these supposed miracles?" If she were other than royalty, Brother Guido would have expected her to have been seized by the Chantry and put to the test before a bevy of Templars and other specialists. Again, this obvious, easy avenue was closed to them, frustrated by her high rank. "Considering the intentions of her husband, I cannot deny that I find her achievements suspiciously fortuitous."

"I have not, but have received comprehensive eye-witness reports from the Lothering and Redcliffe chantries. The Revered Mothers there were convinced that the results they observed could not have been achieved by natural means, and yet, of the many Templars who stood by for these demonstrations, not one has claimed to feel the Fade accessed."

"And these absurd and sacrilegious rumours that she is Andraste reborn? I assume these are put about by the King's agents, in order to bring a veneer of entitlement to his intentions?"

"I do not know, Your Holiness. All kinds of rumours have been spread by the ignorant peasantry, it is impossible to unpick from the tangle those which may have originated with the Crown."

"Hmm." Brother Guido, Divine Legate to the Andrastian Chantry, sat a moment longer, schemes and plans ticking away behind his eyes. "I believe I would like to meet with this King Alistair. Arrange it."

_-oOo-_


	53. Chapter 53

_-oOo-_

Their campfire was small and protected, its smoke not more than a few yards distant. A map, spread out on a rock, was marked with the route and every possible overnight campsite of the royal procession. The choices were few: with the addition of both the Arl's and the Teyrn's guard and servants, Queen Madeleina's entourage was now too large to camp anywhere except very specific locations.

The sheer size of said entourage added complexity to their task. This was unfortunate, but unavoidable; once the royal party reached the safety of Denerim, the mark would become much more difficult to reach. Much worse, was the realization of exactly who stood close to their target.

Zevran Arainai.

_Il Rinnegato_, the Renegade, who according to rumour had not only killed every Crow who had taken his contract, but had also systematically destroyed entire cells as a warning to others. None of the older Crow Masters would touch his contract now; instead they had quietly increased their own powerbases from the destruction of their less cautious rivals, and closed ranks. Zevran Arainai should not exist, and so they pretended that he did not. The contract stood, as it must, until his corpse rotted on the ground. If others wished to pick it up, then they may. It was a hot potato, and only the young, the foolish or the desperate risked burnt fingers.

This cell was none of the above, but neither were they strong enough - in the opinion of the youngest of their number – to succeed against such an old hand on his own ground, and the discovery that this was the location in which he'd gone to ground gave them pause. They were four in total: Jacinta, tough and wiry, the oldest of them by a few years and those years gave her an edge on experience; Gianluca, who bore heavy scarring around his left eye, a permanent reminder of the messy political fracas that had thinned their ranks some years ago; Bianca, aptly named for her snowy hair and translucent skin, a deceptively fragile elven beauty, until one came close enough to see her cold emotionless eyes; and Xavier, the youngest by far, who had only just completed his training when the strength of their House had been cut out from under them. He'd survived by a fluke, missing most of the fighting, and ever since had wished desperately that he'd remained an apprentice just a little longer. Just a few precious weeks would have left him free to seek another Master, to seek a stronger House. Instead of which the die had been cast that fateful day, and he was tarred with the same brush as the rest. The _nobile _House to which his cell was sworn was weakened almost to the point of extinction; how their _padrona_ had survived so long was a mystery.

Plans were considered and discarded. An ambush on the road? Impossible, given the sheer number of troops; even if they hired the biggest mercenary band available, their royal mark would be too well protected. Infiltration? With so many servants milling around, one extra would hardly be noticed. But with _Il Rinnegato's_ watchful eyes in camp, it was too risky. Of the four of them, only Xavier could be certain that Zevran did not know his face, young as he had been when the former Crow left for his final mission. Jacinta had no hesitation in stating her views on _that_ plan.

"This little one, to carry out the contract alone?" She snorted scornfully. "I do not think so."

Xavier swallowed his resentment. He was well trained, but it could not be denied that he lacked experience, and a royal kill was never simple. "A diversion then; much easier to arrange one from inside the camp, no?"

Hard grey eyes stared into his, while her long fingers tapped restlessly on the map. Eventually, she nodded. "A diversion,_ buono_, we can work with that."

_-oOo-_

The hastily written note in the Divine's own hand reached Empress Celene at Halamshiral, mere hours from the busy dwarven trading station which had grown up around the Lyrium Run, the tunnel into Orzammar which had disgorged boxes of lyrium to the Orlesian Chantry for hundreds of years.

She had to read it twice before her mind would accept the truth of what she was seeing.

Ferelden, _Ferelden_ to hold the lyrium trade? The idea was ludicrous, they couldn't afford it. Her idiot brother-in-law had overreached himself; his pitiful little nation would be bankrupted before the trade could begin to bear fruit. Only two nations in Thedas, other than Tevinter, had sufficient wealth to back him: one was Orlais, and although she would have welcomed an approach in this matter – one which gave Orlais the lion's share, naturally – none had been forthcoming. The other was Antiva; the merchant banks there would no doubt be delighted to have their fingers in this pie, at a substantial rate of interest. Nothing in the considerable intelligence that crossed her desk had suggested that any such contact had been initiated, however.

The idea that Orzammar might have provided a line of credit quite simply failed to occur to her; in the list of nations which ticked across her mind, considered and discarded, only those with land and borders registered.

Celene whiled away the long carriage ride back to Val Royeaux by turning over schemes for the future. Her initial furious reaction – to invade, to bring Ferelden together with its lucrative contract under her heel – was discarded. It was unsubtle and unnecessary; she had perceived nothing in King Alistair to suggest that he was capable of making a success of this venture. The state of Ferelden's fortunes was precarious; the Blight had hit them, and only them, leaving them even poorer than usual. A waiting game, one year, perhaps two, would bring home the reality of administering such a vast trade. She resolved to bolster her intelligence gathering in the Ferelden court, to ensure that the information she received was thorough and complete. Orlais would not be the only nation watching Ferelden closely; when the crisis point came she must be swift to act.

A second rude shock awaited her in Val Royeaux.

"I fail to understand you." In the years since her ascension to the throne, Celene could not recall a single occasion on which the Divine had gainsaid her. It was inconceivable that she would begin now, with the Chantry in such a delicate position. "This matter was agreed between us months ago."

"I am sorry, Your Majesty, but the Chantry cannot assist you in this, after all. To seize the Queen of Ferelden on charges of magery would not be in our interests at this time."

"This is about the lyrium?" Celene could accept that the Divine was in a difficult position; thousands of Templars across half a dozen nations relied upon the Chantry to provide their daily dose. "Ferelden will not hold the trade for long, I assure you."

"Not only that, Your Majesty." The Divine squirmed in her seat while the Empress waited on her response. "King Alistair has intimated that he knows about… the shipments."

"I see." No paper trail connected the Imperial Throne to the provision of Tranquil to Orzammar. It had done, under her less cautious predecessors, but she had ensured all evidence was destroyed years ago. Culling the Alienage was a necessity; they bred like rabbits and were less useful. Celene made a mental note to speak to the Tevinter ambassador about an alternative arrangement. "He's threatened you with exposure? What possible advantage could he find in doing so?"

"Your Majesty, the news out of Ferelden is troubling to me. I have sent a Divine Legate there, one Brother Guido, who is perhaps known to you." Celene nodded acknowledgement; the Antivan was one of the most subtle minds in the Chantry and the only male to have achieved his rank. "The first of his dispatches arrived this morning. The intelligence he has gathered suggests that King Alistair no longer recognises the authority of the Chantry. He intends to take the Ferelden chantry under his own protection, and has called a Landsmeet to convince his nobles to support him in this heretical endeavour."

A lesser woman would have gawked in shock; Celene controlled herself, but with an effort. Her first thought was, _what exactly has the Chantry done to provoke such a weak man to such an extreme response?_ She could certainly see the Divine's problem, in the face of this news; between his control of the lyrium trade, and holding their guilty secret in his fist, King Alistair's position was far, far stronger than any had ever held against the Chantry. It was time to ensure that Imperial Orlais was positioned at a safe distance from such an inflammatory situation.

"I sincerely hope then, for your sake, that Brother Guido is as good as he is reported to be." Her words were cool and dismissive. Orlais would not be involved; they would wait this situation out and see if anything may be gleaned from the wreckage.

_-oOo-_

"You wanted to see me, _regina mia_?" With Teyrn Cousland and Arl Wulff dominating her time and attention, Zevran had been surprised to receive a summons to the royal marquee. Maddy was tiring more easily as her pregnancy progressed, and rarely wanted to spend time with anyone but Kallian after the supper hour.

"I do." The petite Queen seemed agitated, uncomfortable, making Zevran more curious than ever. "Have a seat, and some wine, Zevran; I need to talk to you."

Zev accepted both the seat and the wine, pouring for himself from the carafe on the table. He sat at his ease, waiting for his hostess to enlighten him.

Maddy took the seat opposite from his, at the long table used for both meals and councils. Having got him here she seemed reluctant to speak, twisting her hands together and frowning. When she finally looked up at him, her green eyes were apologetic.

"Please, forgive me for being… intrusive, but can you tell me the truth of what lies between yourself and my brother?"

Whatever Zevran had been expecting it was not this. His fingers tensed around the stem of the metal goblet, but he kept his voice calm. "And how should I answer that? I have first to ask myself why it is that you are asking me, and not _tuo fratello_."

"I _have_ asked him, and all I get is a mouthful of… of _duty_." Rain began to drum on the fabric of the tent and there were shouts outside from servants rushing for cover. "I'm worried about him, Zevran. He's going to leave us, go back to Orlais and marry some Antivan princess who'll make him miserable." He told himself that it was only the sight of Maddy's unhappy little face that clenched his heart at these words. "I want to help him and I don't know how. So, I'm asking you, because I think perhaps you care for Philippe more than you admit. How can we help him?"

Zev took a swift drink from the goblet, setting it deliberately on the table. "I have offered to help him in the only way I can. He refused."

"You offered to go with him? To Ghislain?" Her question was eager and when he blinked at her in surprise, she rushed on. "It is what he needs, I know it, to let go of his scruples and take you with him. It's making him so desperately unhappy and I can't bear it."

"No, _regina mia_." He kept his voice gentle, moved by her honest distress, despite the knife that twisted in his chest. Maddy's words should not have come as a surprise. Ever since the Empress' letter arrived at West Hill, Philippe had been remote, withdrawn from him; there had been no intimacy between them. _He's going back to Orlais, back to his life. There is no place for me there_. "I offered to kill Principessa Luciana, and your sister Celene too, if that was what he desired." She recoiled slightly, flinching away from the table between them and he smirked mirthlessly. "You must recall, Madeleina, that this is what I am; an assassin, a killer. It is all I have to offer."

"I know." Her voice was small, but her chin stuck out determinedly. "But my brother loves you, and I want him to be happy. I do not care about anything else."

"This is foolishness. What does it matter what _you _want and what _you_ care for?" She was an unworthy victim for his anger and he knew it, but she had invited it and the wounded beast within snarled in pain to hear her say _he loves you_. "Your brother is an Imperial Prince and he knows his place and his duty, it seems. What you want, or what I want is irrelevant. You think I'm fit to be near him? You think that I'm _safe_? Take your concerns for his welfare elsewhere, but leave me out of it. There is no place in this for such as me." The rain was coming down hard now, the noise on the tent drowning any protest she might make. Zevran stood quickly, knowing he had already said too much, desperate to leave, to find a secret corner in which to lick his wounds.

_You are a fool, Zevran. You knew he would go, for why should one such as he stay with one such as you?_

_-oOo-_

"Andraste's blessings upon you, Your Majesty."

It was well-known, of course that, prior to taking the throne, Alistair Fitz-Theirin had been a Grey Warden and fought an Archdemon, but even so, the sheer scale of the Ferelden King was impressive. The hand he held out to Brother Guido was large and meaty, engulfing the Antivan's slender fingers. His smile was open and genuine, albeit with a noticeable wary strain around the eyes. He demonstrated neither royal hauteur nor deference to the Legate's holy standing, merely indicating a chair which faced his impressive desk.

Brother Guido took the offered seat, smoothing down his robes while the King, and the Arls of Denerim and Redcliffe, seated themselves also. It was interesting that his interview was taking place in the King's study, rather than the main audience chamber, as the Grand Cleric's had. With the Ferelden love of informality, he hoped this boded well for their discussion.

"Brother… Guido, is it not?" The Brother kept his face smooth as he inclined his head, although inwardly wincing at the King's faux pas. Even a monarch should greet a Divine Legate properly. "You come from Val Royeaux at the behest of the Divine, I understand. Tell me then, what is it you desire from Ferelden?"

A direct approach, perfectly in tune with what he had read and heard about this young King. Certainly this was not the mind behind the bold plans that threatened to disrupt harmony between Chantry and the Ferelden State. Arl Eamon, perhaps, who was well known for his subtlety. "Your letter came as a great surprise to Her Holiness, Sire. Ferelden has always been a good son of the Andrastian Chantry, and she wonders why you did not intercede on her behalf with the dwarves of Orzammar. Surely you are aware how necessary it is that the Chantry controls this dangerous substance?"

The King's grin was boyish, swift and unexpected. "Having trained as a Templar, I certainly understand how necessary the Chantry finds lyrium." The direct thrust made even the imperturbable Legate blink. There was to be no dance of words it seemed. "This makes it all the more disturbing when I discover that the Chantry has been poisoning the supply, especially when it causes drug-crazed Templars to offer violence to my person."

Old news, intended to derail the discussion, to put him on the defensive. "I have spoken with the Grand Cleric about this. They are yours to do with as you wish, Your Majesty. Make an example of them, if that is your desire."

King Alistair looked somewhat taken aback and then rallied. "I'd much prefer to see the one who poisoned them brought to justice. I'm not the only one who has suffered at the hands of those rampaging lunatics."

Arl Eamon stepped in, smoothly bringing the discussion back down into diplomatic channels. "What His Majesty means to say is that we are very concerned about the role Grand Cleric Leanna may have played in this matter. As you no doubt know, we alerted the Divine some time ago to the tensions which arose as a result of her actions, and asked for her to be replaced."

"If that is what is required to bring harmony, then consider it done." Brother Guido's flat response brought silence, which he took advantage of. "King Alistair, my lords, it is not my wish to cause further difficulties. Errors have been made, and we of the Chantry are keen to correct them. We do not wish there to be bad blood between us; Ferelden is a devout nation, and its people require a sympathetic Chantry. But I need you to see how vital it is that the Chantry be seen to control the lyrium trade. People fear mages, and lyrium is the substance which fuels their magic. For it to lie in secular control is unacceptable; surely you see that."

"Then you should have taken better care of it." The King's massive arms were folded across his chest, putting considerable strain on fine tailoring. There was a militant gleam in his eye that suggested the Legate's arguments were not making the impact he'd hoped. "Your contract with Orzammar is broken; King Bhelen will not deal with you again."

"But _you_ could, King Alistair, for the good of all." Brother Guido injected into his voice all the persuasion he could muster. "I see why you took on this burden, and your actions were commendable, but I can already perceive how much strain it puts upon your country's finances. Allow the Chantry to assist you in this, allow us to administer the lyrium trade as we always have, let the world see that the status quo is not being threatened."

"Are you suggesting that we act as a front for the Chantry?" Arl Teagan spoke for the first time, an edge of indignation in his voice. "After everything that's happened here?"

"Culprits can be punished, normality can be re-instated. The faithful need to feel secure, and your quarrel is not with the Divine."

"There's a whole batch of Tranquil mages in the Circle Tower for whom 'normality' _cannot _be re-instated." Anger vibrated through the King's voice. "Do you have anything to say about _that_?"

Brother Guido picked his words carefully. Such concern for a parcel of mages… it was unheard of in a monarch. This King Alistair clearly allowed his heart to rule his head, a dangerous thing in a ruler. "Incidents in Circle Towers are, by necessity, kept quiet in order to avoid alarming the populace. If the Knight Commander claims that the mages were a threat, then both you and I must accept that. They are his charges and it is his decision."

The King's hard hazel stare under lowered brows was a shade unnerving. In any civilized country, open violence in the council chamber was considered vulgar, but these Fereldans… It was a relief when King Alistair finally spoke again, his voice soft and entirely at odds with his demeanour.

"Was there anything else you wished to say to us today, Brother?"

"It saddens us to see dissension between the Chantry and such a devout nation, my son." If this backwater monarch insisted on using such an insulting title for a Holy Legate, then the informality could be used to demonstrate the might of the Chantry. "We desire nothing more than to see Ferelden safe and secure in Andraste's embrace once more." This glancing reference was as close as he dared come to the central issue: the potential for Ferelden to secede from the control of the Divine. "If you permit it, we will work with you to bring that happy conclusion."

King Alistair nodded slowly. "We will consider your words." It seemed unlikely he would; body language suggested that, of the three men, only Arl Eamon was giving the notion any serious consideration.

"That is all I ask, Sire." _That, and enough time before the Landsmeet to sway sufficient nobles to the Chantry's cause._

_-oOo-_

Once the Legate had been bowed out, Alistair ruffled his hair, glad to be freed from constraint. "Leliana?" The bard slipped out from a curtained embrasure. "What do you think?"

She pursed her lips, wide blue eyes thoughtful. "That is a dangerous man, Alistair. He is watchful, too watchful to be untrained. The offer on the lyrium is a genuine one, I think. They will lose too much face, once it becomes known that lyrium was not a divine right, but a mere trade contract."

"If I didn't have three years credit with Bhelen, I might have been forced to take it, or cut another country in on the deal. Thank the Maker I have that freedom, at least."

"I would urge you to consider his offer, Alistair. Making peace with the Chantry, even at this late stage, is still possible, and is an extremely desirable outcome." At Eamon's cool, calculating tone, Alistair swallowed a sudden burst of anger, reminding himself that the Arl had not seen what the rest of them had. "He is offering to remove those Clerics and Templars who have been a thorn in your side, to appoint ones who will behave in a more appropriate manner. Isn't that what you've wanted, all along?"

"If he'd offered it three months ago, I'd have snatched his hand off. _That_ was before I saw what the Chantry – not the Ferelden Chantry, but the whole Chantry - is capable of." Alistair rubbed his face, wearily; he was_ tired_ of all this. "Having seen all those Tranquil slaves in the mines… how can I be sure that the Divine didn't support Leanna in what she was doing? Oh sure, they'll throw her to the wolves, now I have them by the short hairs, and they'll promise to play nice… but Eamon, your _son_ is in the Circle, we still don't even know for certain that he's safe. How can you even consider risking him further?"

Alistair could see the traces of softness in his Chancellor - the worry over Connor's fate - in the deepening lines of his face, but his pale eyes remained distant. "I'm trying to do what's best for Ferelden, Alistair. This Landsmeet… If you lose this vote then they will never perceive you in quite the same way again. You will lose the support of the nobles in a hundred minor ways. If you win it, then Maker help us all. I don't even know if other Andrastian countries will continue to trade with us."

"Of course they will, brother." Teagan remained brisk and cheerful. "We hold the lyrium trade. They must either come to us or go to Tevinter. We'll always be the sane choice."

"Don't give up on me now, Eamon." Alistair hated the pleading note in his own voice, but he needed his Chancellor, now more than ever. "We can do this; we can make everyone safe, but I need you with me."

"There is, perhaps, one other thing you need to consider." Leliana's lilting tone was apologetic. "I cannot be certain, but from what he said and how he acted, I _think _the Legate may know what you plan. 'Safe and secure in Andraste's embrace _once more_' he said, did he not? It was a strange wording to use, _n'est ce-pas_?

"If so, we'll need to take a closer look at the list of voters – make sure of as many floating votes as possible before he can get to them." Teagan pulled a well-worn list from his sleeve. It was going to be another long afternoon. Alistair sighed resignedly, wishing Maddy would hurry up and get here. They couldn't begin the Landsmeet until she arrived with Wulff and Fergus.

And he missed her terribly.

_-oOo-_

The teeming rain that had fallen for two days now was fortuitous, making the guard miserable and lax. Xavier waited until all except the night watch were abed before slipping out of the servants quarters into the quiet camp, to let loose the horses as planned - a diversion to draw attention away from the little group of tents surrounding the large royal marquee.

The task was absurdly simple, for even the most placid horse will bolt with a smear of ginger oil under his tail, and where one horse bolts, many more will follow. With the thunder of hooves and shouts of guards competing with the rain, Xavier melted back into the darkness, his task done. He needed now to escape the camp, return to the rendezvous point and await his fellows.

He was nearly at the edge of camp, ghosting through the night with all the skill he'd been taught, dodging puddles and mud that might suck at his feet and give away his position, when he saw a sight to make his heart stutter with fear.

_Il Rinnegato_ was awake and alert.

He caught only a glint of blond hair and a glimpse of a darkened blade before the former Crow was upon him. The stiletto that flashed to his throat made only the smallest nick in the skin but it was enough. His legs gave out instantly, and efficient hands bound him.

"You think I would not spot such a one as you, eh?" The murmured voice sent chills through him. Whether the mission succeeded or failed Xavier knew he was now doomed. Stories were told of the condition in which Zevran left his victims, as warnings to other Crows. "Your little diversion will fail; the Queen's tent is full of guards and our lovely Kallian is keen to kill some _Corvi_. When the rest of your cell is dead, we shall have a nice little talk, you and I."

_The Queen_. He had one card left to play, one which may earn him the mercy of a swift death, if nothing else. Xavier grasped at that, the most any Crow hoped for, and squeezed out words through vocal chords already tightening with the paralysis poison.

"Not. her." His voice was little more than a croak, but enough to bring Zevran's efficient movements to a halt. "_Him_."

The hands tying knots at Xavier's wrists tightened with bone-crushing strength. The liquid voice beside him whispered a curse as foul as any he had ever heard. Then he was falling, released from that relentless grip to collapse motionless in the mud. There were running feet behind him, moving away swiftly, and then only the noises of the camp and the rain.

_-oOo-_


	54. Chapter 54

_-oOo-_

"Not. her."

"_Him_."

These three words, squeezed out painfully past paralysed vocal chords, brought Zevran's world crashing down. He didn't notice the helpless body splashing into the mud, couldn't feel the cold driving rain, or hear the shouts of guardsmen and grooms trying to round up horses.

He'd believed the situation to be sewn up, had been smugly confident ever since the moment, yesterday, when he spotted the unobtrusive figure, moving quietly amongst the other servants with a graceful gait that was unmistakable. Crow training, not long out of apprenticeship. It was a joke in some cells; how virtually every Crow wound up back in training within a year or two, trying to unlearn what they had so painstakingly learnt. Re-discovering how to move like a normal person, how to occasionally bump into furniture, how to lose your balance slightly when carrying an awkward package.

He'd watched the young Crow carefully, making sure not to alert him. Too young and too untried to be here for him, and very unlikely to be working alone. A cell then, which could be here for the Arl, the Teyrn or the Queen. Further surveillance had verified it; the nondescript dark-haired young man showed no interest in the parts of the camp where Teyrn Fergus or Arl Wulff pitched their tents. In the royal camp he was seen time and again, carrying buckets or trays, looking busy.

He'd considered capturing the boy, drawing from him information on the rest of the cell and on their employer. But he had no idea as to the size of the cell, or even if this untried _ragazzo _would have all the information he needed. Crow Masters did not hand out more information than was required, and to disarm the one weapon that you know the location of will not turn a battle.

So he had waited, watched and put Captain Cedric on high alert. A complex rota of guards had ensured that more could be secreted in Maddy's tent than was apparent, with enough going off duty at regular times to make the guard appear of a normal size. Kallian was frothing at the bit, sleeping in armour and with her blades so sharp she could practically slice the air in two.

Zevran pounded across the camp, negotiating slippery mud with dexterous ease. Philippe could have been sleeping in the royal pavilion these past two nights, _should _have been. It had been the prince himself who had rejected the notion, stating that such a change of routine would alert the assassins. He would not do anything to put his sister at more risk. As a sop he had accepted a single extra guard on his tent, just in case the fighting spilled over in his direction.

Three guards against an unknown number of Crows… _Cuore di Andraste let me be in time_.

_-oOo-_

Denerim looked much as it ever had, except shabbier, many buildings still obviously patched from the battle two years ago. The docks, however, were flourishing, with an inordinate number of both dwarves and elves bustling around. A puzzled frown creased her brow as she leant on the ship's rail; elves had always worked the dock, usually in the very lowest possible capacity, but dwarves? Surface merchants, she assumed, but the number seemed excessive, as was the amount of guards surrounding the cargoes standing on the dock. The crease between her brow grooved a little deeper; some of those guards were wearing the King's livery.

The gangplank was now in place, and the captain came to inform her that passengers were cleared to leave. He was Tevinter, and showed a level of deference to mages that seemed strange to her Ferelden-bred sensibilities, even after all this time.

"Are you ready, dear?"

The smaller figure beside her swallowed nervously, painfully, her blind eyes turning this way and that, tracking the sounds of the busy dock. This wouldn't be easy for her, the biggest crowd they had encountered since they left Tevinter. Finally, she nodded with a short convulsive movement.

At the bottom of the gangplank an unexpected and familiar figure waited, bright hair tucked under the most atrocious hat Wynne had ever seen.

"Leliana." She hugged the younger woman with affection. "How did you know-?"

"I saw the passenger manifests, and could not believe my eyes. Is this-?" The bard's big blue eyes were round with wonder as she turned to the dwarven woman tucked tightly against Wynne's side on the busy dock.

"Yes. Shayle, you remember Leliana?"

_-oOo-_

He thought it must be the rain that woke him, the hard, fast pattering of heavy drops on oiled canvas. There were shouts in the distance and the sound of distressed horses; this was nothing terribly unusual, storms always made the horses skittish.

But tonight was not a normal night, not by any means, and Philippe was surprised that he'd dozed off at all, lying tense and fully dressed on his campbed. This was their last camp before Denerim; if the attack that Zevran seemed so sure of was to come any time, it would come tonight. It had taken an enormous effort to bid his sister goodnight, to walk out of her tent and over to his own, as though nothing was wrong. He hadn't dared look around, hadn't dared show by look or action that anything was amiss. Maddy's life may depend upon it. Only the knowledge of Kallian's sharp blades and Zevran's, the memory of the coiled, controlled violence in both their frames, reassured him. They would keep Maddy safe, while he - with barely enough skill as an archer to take down a stag – would have been mightily in the way, an additional burden they did not need.

A shadow passed across the tent flap, outlined briefly in the firelight. One of the guards perhaps, bored with such a static assignment, but Philippe tensed automatically, thinking that the flitting shadow was on its way to the big marquee in which Maddy and her guards waited. He tried to relax, tried to breathe more easily, ashamed of his nerves. He'd never thought of himself as a coward, but compared to these tough Fereldans, and even more so compared to Zevran, he felt like a babe in arms.

It was while thinking these thoughts, and attempting to force his breathing to a slower level, that Philippe heard a curious sound. It was unlike anything he'd ever heard before; a whisper of noise, too low to have registered if he were sleeping or even dozing. It took a moment for him to work out that it was a small sound close by, rather than a large noise further away. It took longer, altogether too long, for him to pinpoint exactly what that tiny rasping actually was.

Someone was cutting a hole in his tent.

_-oOo-_

The Warden compound was practically deserted when Nathaniel arrived, throwing his bags into the room that had previously been Leonie's and was now his. He unstrapped his armour with practiced ease, lowering it onto the armour stand provided, and stretched, feeling his joints pop. A bath first, and then he must present himself at the palace. The last letter he'd received from Anders had been from Orzammar, describing Leonie's Calling and containing a few coded references to the lyrium trade which he'd had difficulty deciphering. The next thing he'd received was an official invitation to a Landsmeet, with a scribbled note from Anders slipped inside the fancy scroll which merely said '_bring Eddelbrek, we'll explain when you get here_'.

Politics. Despite his father's best efforts, they appeared destined to dog his footsteps. Leonie had been grooming him to take over from her for nearly a year now, with far more emphasis on his role as Warden Commander than that of Arl of Amaranthine. _That_ role she had expected him to fall into easily, despite his protestations that Thomas had been the heir, and he merely the spare who would have been expected to take over the Vigil's garrison. The thought of his father's fury, that his disappointing son should inherit after all, brought a tight internal smile, even now.

'The Butcher of Denerim', they called his father… He'd received enough confirmation over the last two years from independent sources to accept it, but despite this he still squirmed, hating the impact on the Howe name. This Landsmeet would not be easy; for the first time, he would be unable to fade into the background, allowing Leonie's imposing presence to mask his. He must deal with the raised eyebrows, the disapprobation of the nobles at the fact that a Howe ruled Amaranthine once again.

_I'm Warden Commander of Ferelden. The title of Arl is just some… peculiarity that comes along with it. Remember that, Nathaniel, and make sure they remember it also_.

Having said that, he was prepared to vote on just about anything King Alistair wanted him to, unless it adversely affected the Wardens, provided it meant the Vigil no longer housed a small army of bloody mage children.

_-oOo-_

The guards were unconscious or dead, impossible to know which and Zevran had no intention of taking the time to find out.

The inside of the tent was chaos.

It was a sizeable space, not like the imposing marquee that a small army of servants erected for Maddy each night, but a roomy bell tent, big enough to hold a large wooden camp bed, a couple of chests and a small table and chair in reasonable comfort.

In the dark, it was difficult to pick out details, but if Zevran had to guess, he'd say that Philippe had thrown everything bar the bed at his attackers.

One was stationed at the door, holding off from the messy situation further in, and reacted immediately as Zevran entered. Standard Crow procedure, and Zev had been expecting it, so the dagger skittered over his armour and the arm that attempted to take him around the throat met only air. Zevran's own dagger found its target; one down, and no time to waste in locating the others in the murky darkness and crashing furniture.

Despite the urgency he hesitated, unsure which of these flailing shadows might be Philippe. He didn't dare call out, much though he longed to; a response from Philippe would pinpoint his position and the assassins would be on him in a second.

Crow discipline. Zevran released his breath silently and listened. It would only take a moment to be still, to separate the sounds in the room, to seek the familiar. Three bodies, one reeling clumsily, possibly injured. Of the other two… he responded immediately, instinctively, to the presence of another Crow, the footwork had been too precise to be anything else. As he spun to sweep the feet out from under his opponent, he could hear scuffling between the other two; it sounded as though one person was repeatedly hitting the other with a chair, which boded well – a Crow would be using knives, so it was likely the desperate aggression was originating from Philippe. Such clumsy defence would not work for long, indeed he was surprised it had worked at all, and so, with a sense finally of which struggling body was which, Zev ducked under a slashing swipe from his assailant, rolled and plucked a slender throwing knife from his belt, flinging it with practised precision into the adjacent combat.

A hoarse cry greeted this action; hoping that this would slow Philippe's attacker for just long enough, Zevran turned his attention back to his own target, determined to put down him, or her, as quickly as possible.

_-oOo-_

"Wynne." Alistair crushed her in a bear hug tight enough to draw a breathless protest. "Maker's breath, am I glad to see you."

"Alistair, please, you don't know your own strength." He wasn't fooled one bit by her plaintive tone and landed a smacking kiss on the cheek of the woman who'd been more like a mother to him than any other he'd ever known.

"Yes I do, I just choose to ignore it." He released her and watched affectionately as she settled her robes. He turned to the silent figure standing slightly behind her. "And is this really…? I mean… wow." He was secretly dismayed by Shayle's appearance; the conversion from golem back to dwarf must have been almost as horrific as her original encasement in stone. It seemed that every inch of her skin was scarred, shiny with burns and pocked with deep pits. Her eyesockets were hollow, not sealed over as one occasionally saw in an old warrior, but deep, dark and empty. He vaguely remembered hearing about how Caridin had made golems, about the molten lyrium poured into eyes and mouth; these were original scars then, not the work of the Tevinter mages who had reclaimed her.

"The Other Warden, who became King." The words sounded strange in this soft ruined rasp, so unlike Shale's booming tones. "Now I am just as squishy as you. Squishier, in fact."

"Uh, yeah." He'd never really known how to respond to Shale's pronouncements; it seemed some things hadn't changed, now that she was Shayle of House Cadash, not the golem Shale. He turned back to Wynne with some relief. "Wynne, I can't believe how good your timing is. I have a mountain of things to tell you."

The elderly mage raised an eyebrow, giving him _that_ look, just as she used to. "Alistair, what have you been up to? Nothing bad, I hope?"

He grinned, reduced to schoolboy status and loving it. "Well, I'm married, for one thing, and going to be a father. Maker, it's strange to say it, just like that. And, what else?" He ticked them off on his fingers. "I've stolen the lyrium trade out from under the Chantry, locked up Templars in Fort Drakon, made an enemy of the Grand Cleric, the Knight Commander and probably the Divine." The disapproving purse of her mouth was just as he remembered. "Oh, and I'm stealing both the Chantry and the Circle off them." Her face was a picture. "So pretty please, Wynne, my _favouritist _mage ever, will you be my First Enchanter?"

_-oOo-_

Philippe was certain that the only reason he still lived was the advantage he'd begun with: the short amount of time gained by realising that a knife was slicing through the thick canvas of his tent. It had provided just enough of an opportunity to shove a heavy chest into the legs of the first person through the hole. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the tent, he had one more slight, _very_ slight, advantage over his attackers, and so, when the first one had sprawled full length over the knee-high obstruction, he'd been able to swing the wooden chair at the head of the second. A flare of light from the door signalled _another_ assailant entering from that direction, and that was when Philippe realised that he was probably going to die here.

The following moments were crammed with frantic, uncontrolled action that would have made a trained fighter weep. He had no chance to get to his bow, and couldn't imagine how he'd use it in such a confined space anyway. Furniture was his weapon of choice, and he wielded it with a desperation that seemed to confuse his attackers. It couldn't last; already they were regaining control, circling him. Another flare of light from the door signalled the entry of a fourth assailant; it was too much.

Then everything changed, too quickly for Philippe's confused mind to take in. A strangled groan and a thud near the door was almost immediately followed by the intrusion into the enclosed space of the newest arrival. Suddenly, inexplicably, the pressure was off him, one of the menacing shadows breaking off to deal with the new threat. They were all so _quiet - _his attackers and his saviour - no battle shouts, no threats, not even the harsh panting breaths that Philippe knew for sure were ripping from his own throat. He concentrated on braining the shape before him with a chair, hope swelling for the first time, and that hope soared when the faint glint of a knife flashed past him to bury itself in his attacker's shoulder. He choked on a sob of relief, the breath of a word.

"_Zev_."

The response was immediate, from two directions. The shape before him, too slender to be a man, stilled with the blade still buried in her shoulder and then _moved_, too fast for him to follow. And, at the same time, Zevran's voice rose, clipped and urgent.

"To the door, _go_."

He did as he was bid, eager to get reinforcements to help his love, but clumsy and slow compared to everyone else in the enclosed space. Zev and his opponent were whirling in a dangerous dance, while the woman closed in to assist her fellow assassin. There was so little space; he must clamber over the bed to get to the door…

What followed was blurry, confused, with everyone except him seeming in control of their bodies. The door flap was before him, but to get there he must slip past where three shapes whirled and ducked with lethal steel…

Philippe thought he'd made it, his hand lifting the flap of the door when it happened. Zevran flipped away from a slashing blade to land at his side and _ducked_. Something cold and wet hit Philippe on the right side of his face as he turned slightly, instinctively, towards his lover, his saviour.

The world was made of pain, clawing, screaming agony that bit into his face. Philippe's hand was still clenched on the tent flap, and as he fell to his knees, unable to think, to speak, or even breathe, through the pain, he heard the canvas rip, flooding the tent with the light of campfires and torches. The last thing he saw through blurry, tear-filled eyes before merciful oblivion reached up to claim him was Zevran's face of horror turning to murderous rage.

_-oOo-_


	55. Chapter 55

_-oOo-_

Pain. He tried to open his eyes and agony flooded his nerves. An attempt to cry out provided nothing more than a croak. Fragments of conversation drifted past his scattered consciousness.

"_Why would they go for…?"_

"_We have to get him to…"_

"_An acid flask, we think, flung directly into his…"_

"There is no time for this. Bring water, lots and lots of water." That was Zev's voice, sharp and clipped. Philippe tried to speak to him but couldn't. His mouth felt so strange.

"Oh, _mon frère_." Maddy sounded terribly upset, and he vaguely wondered why, but the pain dominated everything, his face was a ball of fire and torment.

"Here,_ amore_, this will help you." A flare of sharp anguish as fingers carefully prised open his mouth. It felt as though the skin of his cheek might crack under the strain, and then a leaf was gently inserted under his tongue. The taste was bitter, but the numbness that spread from it was welcome, pulling him back down to where the pain couldn't follow.

_-oOo-_

"Leliana, you have to find a way to squash this rumour. Maker's breath, we can't have the populace running around saying that my wife is Andraste reborn." Alistair's hair was stuck up every which way and his eyes looked tired. Leliana made a mental note to ensure that something soothing made its way into his cup of tea tonight. "The Chantry will be all over us like a rash, saying that it's sacrilegious, and for the first time this year they'd be in the right. _It is_."

She regarded her friend fondly. "Alistair, you do not need me to settle this for you. Not everything is solved by espionage. Issue a royal proclamation denying it; the Chantry cannot touch you if you openly repudiate the notion."

Alistair blinked at her. "Just like that? That's all it will take?"

Of course not, silly. But it is a good start and one which distances you from the rumour. You see, I have listened hard in the city, and so have those who work for me, and I do not think that this rumour was planted deliberately to harm you. It is popular among the common folk; it is my belief that it originated in the farmlands." She shook her head, a little sadly. "They have had so little to give them hope; it is not surprising that they are trying to elevate Maddy into what she is not, when her gift is like a miracle to them."

He ruffled his hair, making not a scrap of difference to its general disarray. "All right, I'll do it. Maker, Leliana, everything is so damned _difficult_, right now. Did you know that the Legate has been playing up to the nobles? He's got a whole raft of little Banns from down south near Gwaren in his pocket, and another bunch from over Waking Sea district. Alfstanna is in his pocket, also Ceorlic and Loren, and I can't be certain of support from the Brylands." Alistair looked rueful. "I can't please everyone and apparently the new shipyards are putting hackles up from those who think _they_ should have been singled out. If that Antivan snake manages to garner enough votes, then he'll be able to-"

A knock at the door interrupted him, and a servant inserted their person into the room. "Your Majesty, the Warden Commander is here to see you. I believe you've been expecting him."

Leliana kept her face smooth while Nathaniel bowed to his King, and ignored Alistair's sidelong glance at her. After all the time spent in Orzammar with the Wardens, and in particular with Oghren's big mouth, she supposed it was too much to ask that her friends hadn't heard scraps of gossip.

"Nathaniel, have a seat." Alistair waved vaguely at a chair. "How are things at the Vigil?"

"Noisy, Your Majesty." Nathaniel took the proffered seat, and finally slid his eyes over to Leliana, acknowledging her impersonal nod and smile with one of his own. "May I hope that you will be finding alternative accommodations for my guests soon?"

"If all goes well at the Landsmeet, I will, yes." The strain in Alistair's voice made her want to hug him. He'd come so far, done so well, and was working so hard to make things better for his people. "In this room, call me Alistair, please."

"The city is a melting pot of rumour, Alistair." She'd forgotten just how smoky his voice was. "May I ask which ones are true?"

"The vote is being taken to secede the Fereldan Chantry from the Divine's control and into mine. You've seen for yourself how the Templars are behaving. It's the tip of the iceberg, I'm afraid. I don't have exact numbers, but at least half the mages in the Circle are now Tranquil, if my information is correct."

Nathaniel's lips tightened. "I was here with Leonie when they burnt those supposed maleficarum. It's not in the interests of the Wardens to lose potential recruits in such a manner. Surely, though, such an action will provoke an Exalted March? Ferelden can't stand against any such, and the Wardens will not be permitted to stand beside you."

"There will be no March, Commander, I promise. I can't say why, but you have my word on that."

"It is true." Leliana raised her voice for the first time, as an unconvinced frown descended on Nathaniel's face. "The Legate has already been here, making overtures of friendship. He would not do so if he had strong sanctions at his disposal."

"Then you have my support." A ghost of a smile quirked the corner of Nathaniel's mouth. "Anything to get my Keep back to normal."

"And Eddelbrek? Can you convince him, too?" Every vote counted, particularly with the Legate quietly bolstering the negative voting contingent.

"Oh, Eddelbrek wouldn't dream of voting against both his Arl and his King." There was a tinge of amusement in Nathaniel's voice. Leliana spoke sternly to herself about paying too much attention to both his voice _and_ his mouth. "He was always loyal to the Theirin line, and since you gave him Amaranthine City you can do no wrong."

"Excellent." It was warming to see Alistair brighten slightly. "In that case; Leliana, could you fill Nathaniel in on anything else he needs to know, please? I have another appointment to prepare for."

While Nathaniel stood and bowed to the departing King, Leliana directed some hard thoughts at Alistair's back. That was _not_ a fair tactic.

_-oOo-_

While the servants dismantled the camp and rounded up the horses, while the King's Own and the Teyrn and the Arl's soldiers surrounded the disintegrating campsite in a bristling wall of pikes and shields, Maddy swallowed her dismay at the state of her brother and tried to concentrate on how best to help him.

"How far to Denerim?"

"Less than a day's ride." Cedric's eyes were red-rimmed with weariness; he'd been up the previous night too, ever since Zevran had broken the news that they had a Crow in camp. "I've sent a rider already to bring back Anders to meet us on the road."

"I should ride ahead, with Philippe before me, go to meet him. You have a small army with you, _mia regina_, it will move too slowly." There was an air of desperation about Zevran that made Maddy uneasy. When the sounds of combat alerted them to the fact that the target was, in fact, her brother rather than herself, they had rushed to discover Zevran, spattered with the blood of three assassins and attempting to lift Philippe's semi-conscious body, despite his own wounds. The look in the Antivan's eyes… well, suffice to say that she did not consider him to be… stable, right now. "I have instructed the servant tending him to sluice and sluice with water until we can be absolutely certain that all the acid has been removed, but without swift healing he will suffer terrible pain and scarring."

Maddy bit her trembling lip and blinked back tears at the thought of her brother, her beautiful brother. The sight of his ruined face… _Mon frère, I failed you so badly_. They had all been so certain that she was the target and had cushioned her in protection. She had allowed it, driven on by concern for her unborn children, and left her brother undefended. "What if there are more assassins, Zevran? You are injured and cannot protect him." She saw Zevran flinch at these words and her heart squeezed within her. _I'm not the only one berating myself for failure._

"We found one over by the corral, trussed up like a chicken." Cedric nodded to Zevran. "Your work, I assume."

"Ho, you have?" A spark of fierce life came into Zevran's face for the first time. "I would speak with that one, at some length I think."

"How much difference will an hour or two actually make to Philippe?" Maddy chewed her lip, wishing Alistair was here to make the decision for her. "We can make him comfortable in one of the wagons, keep him sedated." _Sacre Coeur d'Andraste, I cannot bear to hear him scream anymore_. "This will be safer than bundling him onto a horse with insufficient guard_, n'est ce-pas_?"

"I agree." Cedric's solid presence was reassuring, a bulwark against the raging inferno of emotion coming off Zevran in waves. "A fast rider will be in Denerim in three hours, at most. Anders should meet us no more than two hours after that. It's far better than taking any more risks."

An almighty struggle seemed to take place before Zevran acquiesced. "_Buono_. Now, show me where this prisoner is held; I have work to do, before we finish striking camp." The menace in his voice sent shivers through the young Queen.

_oOo-_

Following Alistair's departure an uncomfortable silence fell. Nathaniel hadn't seen Leliana since she left the Vigil in answer to the King's letter some nine months ago, although word of her exploits had drifted back in scraps through both rumour and Anders' letters to Leonie.

He squirmed internally when he remembered his last words to her, the day before she abruptly left.

"_A Warden is all duty, Leliana. We… I… have nothing else but duty and blood and death._"

When he heard she had gone to Orlais with King Alistair, he'd thought perhaps she would find someone suitable there, that she had taken his words to heart. And yet, here they were again.

And nothing had changed. In fact, his words were more relevant than ever now. Leonie had gone to her Calling and he was Warden Commander. His duty to the Wardens was a greater one than ever.

"It's late." If his words were abrupt and his tone harsh, then it was not something he could control. "There is no need to remain, merely to instruct me. I'll see Anders tomorrow, and he chatters enough for everyone."

Her blue eyes flashed with some unrecognisable emotion before she closed up like a clam, leaving only the sweet smile and guileless eyes of her training visible. "You have_ duties_ to attend to, no doubt." The slight emphasis drew a wince from Nathaniel. Leliana picked up a sheaf of papers, preparing to exit the sitting room. "_Bon nuit_, Warden Commander."

A waft of her perfume reached him as she passed by, lilies and andraste's grace; he wanted to reach out, he wanted…

He wanted all kinds of things that a Warden had no right to. He kept his hands to himself.

"Good night, Leliana."

_-oOo-_

_My fault, my fault, my fault_.

The words bit into his brain like the acid that had eaten Philippe's flesh, but Zevran kept his face blank, smooth; a perfect Crow mask.

A similar mask faced him, from behind copious mud smears. A young Crow this one, probably no more than a year or two past his initiation rite. A human, his dark hair a tangled mop caked with dirt. He was still tied hand and foot, and someone had slammed a stake into the ground behind him, pinning him by the loop made of his arms. The enclosure in which he had been thrown had been a guard post; to one side a hand of cards was still scattered on the rough table.

Zevran smiled gently, deliberately, and saw a flicker of fear in the man's dark eyes. A _very_ young Crow, then. "_Ragazzo_, you puzzle me. Why would one of the _Corvi_, in the middle of a mission which looked likely to succeed, turn his coat and tell me of his mark, hmm?"

The boy shrugged, as far as he was able. "_Il Rinnegato _held me in his power. Think you that I cared for aught else? Whether they succeeded or failed, you and I would be here now, having this discussion. I chose to anger you as little as possible."

Zevran chuckled. "_Il Rinnegato_? Is that what they call me now?"

"Of course. Who else has left the Crows and lived?"

The young assassin showed good poise and control despite his fear. His voice was well-modulated and his features even. Zevran's own voice floated back to him from the past. "_After all, I wasn't paid for silence_." He prowled around the staked prisoner. "So you spoke as you did in the hope of mercy? From me?" His laugh was cold, humourless. "I doubt that rumour paints me as merciful."

"Rumour says that you are ruthless, skilled but, most of all, _independent_." The boy moistened his lips slightly. "You are no Crow, not any longer, and not tied to their code. Mercy is denied to me from any and all Crows, but not from you. _Maestro_, my name is Xavier Morucci, and I will tell you anything you wish to know."

"Who ordered the mission?" The burning question he wanted the answer to above all else. Zev longed to get his hands on the person who dared to put a contract upon his Prince.

"My _padrona_." When Zevran frowned, Xavier hastened to explain. "We are, were, _il_ _corvo del nobile_; our mistress tells us who she wants dead and we see to it."

_Il corvo del nobile_, a cell of Crows inherited by a noble house. It was an old legacy, from the days before power slipped from the hands of the nobles and into that of the Corvi and the banks. Nobles inherited their own cells, which tended not to be as well-trained as those headed by a _Corvo Maestro_, and who rarely, if ever, took open contracts. They killed at the behest of their owner, and this usually amounted to little more than lethal scuffles between cells belonging to rival nobles. The rest of the world, by which one meant the rest of Antiva, cared not one jot.

A chill ran down Zevran's back, as the identity of the buyer came to him in a flash of clarity. "And the name of your _padrona_?

"Principessa Luciana di Treviso. She had no desire to leave Antiva and move to Orlais, no desire to marry an Orlesian. She has a noble lover of whom she is very fond. She inherited our cell from her brother, Principe Juliano, and sent us to settle the matter." Xavier shrugged. "What was left of us."

"And what _is_ left of you?" Zev shoved the knowledge aside for later. For the moment he must deal with this talkative _ragazzo_, not think of how Philippe's intended had tried to have him killed. _My fault that they nearly succeeded, my fault that he lies injured, my fault, my fault._

"If you killed the others then I am the last; we four were all that remained after Principe Juliano's assassination was ordered by his cousin." Uncertainty crept into the boy's face, seeing and misunderstanding the fury in Zevran's eyes. "That is the truth, _maestro_, why would I give you truth earlier, and see my fellows killed, only to lie now?"

"Do not call me that."

"Why not, it is true. You are more powerful and more skilled than most of the Crow Masters." The expression buried deep in the boy's eyes was like looking into an old mirror. Just so must he have looked, lying helpless at the Grey Warden's feet. "The only mercy I hope from you is a swift death, _maestro_, but I have another proposal, if you would hear me?"

Zevran's prowling once again took him behind the staked figure. "_Ragazzo,_ you have not stopped speaking since we met. Say your piece, if you must."

Again Xavier moistened his lips. Zevran knew a final throw of the dice when he saw one. "There are many rumours about you in Antiva City, but I heard one just before I left, from a strong source. They say that the Grand Masters shall make you a _Corvo Maestro_ in your absence, that they will recognise you again due to the strength you have shown in depleting their numbers. Your contract must stand until you die, but who will take it, when you stand in the Grand Masters' favour? You will need a cell of your own, _maestro_, perhaps I ca-" His voice ended in a gurgle as blood sheeted over his muddy clothes.

"I am not going back, _bambino_, but you may have your mercy. As you say, I am a Crow no longer and it is mine to give."

_-oOo-_

Anders was beginning to recall just how infuriating he'd always found Wynne.

"Ser Bryant is trying to help you, child. He can't do that unless you trust him."

_Child_. She used to do that back at the Circle, treat everyone like they were eight years old. The canvas of memory painted the annoying old bat as a valid reason for at least two of his escape attempts. "I don't need the help of a _Templar_." He ruthlessly crushed the picture that arose before his eyes, of Alistair kneeling next to him, gently cleansing while he wrestled with the devastating weight of the Fade. _That_ was the reason he was trapped in this room with these two busybodies in the first place.

"Look, despite what Templars have always believed, mages don't just randomly leak power and leave the door to the Fade open. Not even deliberately, under 'controlled conditions' as you have so glibly put it, and for a training exercise." He scowled at the swarthy Templar, daring him to disagree. "I've spent my whole life doing the exact opposite, which is why I _don't_ need a bloody watchdog."

"King Alistair thinks differently, Warden."

"I know what Alistair thinks, thank you very much, Ser Templar."

Blast Alistair and his high-flying ideas on how mages and Templars could work together.

"_How many abominations have you faced during your time as a Warden, Anders?" Alistair's eyes were sombre, determined. "If your experiences are anything like mine, then the answer is 'too many'. For all that the Chantry insists that Templars are best equipped to deal with blood mages and abominations, you and I both know just what arrant nonsense that is. The best team to put down an abomination is one or more Templars together with a mage, and I want the Chantry to learn to work that way. That means they'll need a new training regime, one where the Templars can smite the blood mage knowing that his ally is safely out of range." The ex-Templar had hesitated before continuing. "They also need to know how to assist a mage on their team if he becomes too… agitated. They need to understand how to help an ally without seeming like an additional threat."_

Which was all very well, but buried in it were all kinds of hints about the future of mages that made Anders uneasy. He'd thought they were fighting for the freedom of mages, not a revised set of prison bars. Somehow, Alistair had convinced him to work with the Circle-loving old biddy and stodgy Templar, but the process was making him cranky and not relieving any of his fears for the future of mages.

_Assuming there were any left in the Circle by this stage_, he thought gloomily. _And even if they are, they'll all be like Wynne._

Perish the thought.

It was a relief to Anders when their stilted attempts to practice accepting cleansing energy - while his brain screamed _run, run, run - _were interrupted by a timid knock at the door.

Half an hour later he was on a horse, riding pell-mell out of the city gates.

_-oOo-_


	56. Chapter 56

_-oOo-_

It was impossible to know how much time had passed. Periods spent awake were an eternity of agony, marked by the creaking of the cart and the jolting as it hit the occasional pothole. Fever ripped through his body, bringing uncontrollable shivers. Cool cloths were applied to the right side of his face, bringing a mixture of burning pain and blessed relief. He couldn't see properly, everything was blurred and the light was hurtful.

Philippe anchored himself in the murmur of Zevran's voice, which reassured him almost as much as the strong, slim fingers laced through his own. _You are safe, help is coming. Open your mouth, carefully, here is another leaf. Sleep, amore_.

The next time he awoke it was to find his sister's small hand cupped inside his, and it was the familiar, cheerful voice of a healing mage which assailed his ears.

"…significant nerve damage, which I can heal, but there will be some scarring. The right eye, however…" Philippe could hear the shrug in Anders' voice. "If I'd been here… but after this amount of time all I can do is try."

The sudden torrent of cool energy on his face was, quite frankly, amazing. The pain receded, and when he flexed his jaw, it no longer felt as though his skin moved like old, cracked leather. A cautious attempt to open his eyes was forestalled by a large hand descending over them and a fresh wash of energy pouring through his right eye. Nerves fizzled and the whole eyeball itched so much that Philippe was desperate to rub the lid.

"Hang in there; this is probably going to hurt." Considering how much pain Anders had already erased, Philippe doubted it, but the mage was correct. The next pulse of energy through his eye stabbed like a knife and he cried out, squeezing the hand still holding his until Maddy made a small _meep_ of distress. Immediately there were fingers prising open his free hand, strong fingers backed by Zev's voice telling him to hold on. Philippe grasped this lifeline just in time for the next stabbing pulse, crushing the assassin's hand in his own as agony lanced through his eye.

"I'll try one more time." Anders' soft murmur barely reached him through the blurry, messy sense of being entirely out of control, but their meaning was made clear by the sheer scale of the next thrust of insistent energy. The hands he was holding retreated into a far distance, while the sensation of Anders' hand, heavy over his eyes, lost focus. Philippe slipped away from the world, back down into the dark where there was nothing.

_-oOo-_

"The votes we've garnered will not be enough, Your Holiness." Brother Guido's assistant, Sister Letitia, was a hawk-nosed middle-aged woman of brutal efficiency. "I've been studying Ferelden law and, for a vote of this nature, two-thirds majority is required for it to succeed. By my calculation we currently hold one quarter of the nobles. If we assume that Teyrn Cousland and Arl Wulff are in the Queen's pocket, then the King holds just over half the vote currently. The remainder are vacillating, but given the improvements the Queen can make to fortunes in the Bannorn, they are likely to go with the Crown unless given sufficient grounds to oppose it."

"Then we must provide such grounds." The vote must fail; it was the only way to solve this without provoking King Alistair into exposing the Chantry's less… ethical… dealings. "What do you have for me?"

"Well, many of the nobles have relatives either in the Templars or the Circle, so rumours of drugs and enforced Tranquillity are damaging our reputation with them. The common people, however, are still largely terrified of mages. If we can use that to bring the nobles around…"

Sister Letitia was unlikely to raise such a nebulous point unless she had a solid suggestion on how to achieve their aim. Consequently, Brother Guido curbed his impatience and waited for her to continue.

The Sister fished in the leather satchel she used for her papers and was never parted from. "We aren't the only ones thinking this way, Your Holiness. The King's advisors appear to have similar ideas. I found this tacked to a wall in the Denerim market. There are a lot of them around."

The sheet was large and written in a flourishing, eye-catching script. Phrases leapt out, bringing an interested gleam to the Legate's eye. "This is to be held tomorrow?"

"So it says, Your Holiness, although my information is that the King's mage left the city in a hurry this morning."

"Let me know the instant he returns. If this spectacle is to go ahead, then I may make good use of the opportunity."

_-oOo-_

By the time word arrived that the Queen's entourage had been sighted approaching the Denerim gates, Alistair was nearly breaking up the furniture in a frenzy of anxiety. The arrival of a messenger in royal livery, stating that assassins had attacked the Queen's camp, and requesting that Anders ride immediately to assist the wounded, had brought his heart to his mouth. Alistair had been all for riding out with Anders there and then, and it had required the combined persuasive efforts of Teagan, Eamon and Leliana to dissuade him.

A more thorough perusal of Cedric's short note had given him at least a modicum of comfort. Maddy was unharmed and under heavy guard. Philippe had been the target and was badly injured. This made no sense at all to Alistair, but settled him sufficiently that he was able to listen to the entreaties of his advisors. They were right, he couldn't afford to leave now; the Landsmeet was imminent and every second counted.

That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

Alistair stopped only long enough to fling on a fresh shirt and doublet, and make a vague futile attempt to bring his hair into some kind of order, before charging off to meet his wife. He paused at the gates of the Palace District, nodding to the guard commander on duty there to open them in readiness. They could hear the distant cheers that heralded Maddy's approach; it seemed the common folk had turned out in force to greet her.

"Alistair!" He turned at the hail, to see Leliana walking with brisk steps across the courtyard, beaming from ear to ear. "Oh, I am so happy they are home. Everyone will be together again, _n'est ce-pas_?"

"Maker, yes." Alistair had missed Maddy, missed her more than he'd thought possible, but he'd missed the others too. He'd even missed Zevran, which he would never have imagined. They were a team, and the prospect of dealing with the Landsmeet felt infinitely more achievable with his team around him. "I hope Philippe is all right. I feel responsible, with him being injured in a camp full of my guards. Ced's letter didn't say what injuries he'd sustained."

Leliana patted his arm. "Do not worry so; Anders will have fixed him up. Wynne worked miracles time and time again for us, and Anders is even better."

"I hope so, I-" Alistair stopped, a sudden frown creasing his forehead. The sounds outside had changed, the shouts and cheers turning to a full-throated roar.

Something was happening.

_-oOo-_

Everything changed so _fast_. They were home; a dirty home, still only half-rebuilt from darkspawn attacks, but home nevertheless. Although she had one anxious eye on her brother, now restored to the saddle but not… quite… himself, Maddy was smiling to the cheering crowds, who seemed to be cheering her obviously pregnant belly as much as her. There were cries of '_Maker save Queen Madeleina!'_ and '_Andraste bless the Theirin heirs!'_

There were other shouts too, ones which confused her, references to '_the Blessed Lady'_ and _'living Andraste'._ That's what seemed to cause a problem, only scuffles at first, easily quenched under the general enthusiasm of the crowd. The commoners had followed her from the Market through the Noble District, obviously hoping for a glimpse of her reunion with their King, and here the scuffles began to look like real fights, as the crowd grew larger and opinion seemed to divide sharply. There were cries of 'sacrilege' and roars of defiance in response.

That's when a shining globe of protective energy erupted around Madeleina.

Anders no doubt meant well, but the sight of magic encasing their Queen inflamed the crowd even further. The fights were turning into a full-blown riot. Kallian, riding close beside Maddy, had drawn two full-length swords from the sheaths on her saddle, and was kicking viciously at anyone who allowed the brawling to fling them into the path of Maddy's increasingly skittish horse. One man, who failed to take Kalli's kicks as fair warning, turned and made the mistake of trying to pull the elf from her mount. Maddy turned her head away, sickened by the sight of him falling below their hooves with his head half sliced from his body.

Hands grasped her reins from the other side. Cedric, his shield raised protectively, bellowed over the noise of the crowd. "We have to get to the Palace District, close the gates!" Pressing forward meant encouraging the horses to ride people down; bodies churned and grappled in all directions, while bystanders screamed and tried to get away from the fighting. It was chaos. A man charged at Maddy, his face distorted in a scream of rage, and Kallian's blades flashed, cutting him down without hesitation.

The sound of blaring horns and the thunder of hooves could be heard above the racket, and the crowd ahead scattered, allowing glimpses of shining armour and sharp spears. The relief on Maddy's face was mirrored in Cedric's; the Royal guard had turned out to bolster their numbers and take them to safety. In their midst was a beloved face above a burnished shield.

"_Mon mari_," she whispered and although no-one could have heard the words, she saw his worried expression light up when her lips formed them.

_-oOo-_

As soon as it became clear that the crowd was turning ugly, Alistair wasted no time in calling the guard to horse. When he also called for a sword and shield and a horse of his own, Leliana protested.

"You have no armour, Alistair!"

"I don't care, my _wife_ is out there!"

They rode through the Noble District, following the sounds of conflict, seeing frightened individuals fleeing the scene of the riot. Only once they turned the final corner did the extent of the situation become apparent; the usually quiet streets were in uproar, the city guard utterly unable to keep order. Guards both in the livery of the King's Own, and that of Highever, encircled a small group including a tiny figure enclosed in shimmering shield of magic. Alistair could see Fergus Cousland and Cedric at the head of the group, shields held over the pregnant Queen, while their troops tried to force a path.

"Clear the way, do whatever you have to!" Fear for his wife and children fuelled Alistair's determination, making his instruction to the Guard Commander at his side more brutal than his usual wont. The Commander rapped out sharp orders and horns sounded. The horses surged forwards, closing the distance to the Queen's beleaguered force, literally riding down those in their path. Alistair saw Maddy raise her head at the sound of the horns, and his heart lifted. She seemed unharmed and he was determined to keep her that way.

They pushed through the crowd, scattering bodies, and only once he reached Maddy's side did Alistair give a new order. "Get us to the Palace gates and then disperse this rabble."

With the weight of so many mounted soldiers at their disposal, cutting through the crowd was easier. Many had already begun to slink away, not wishing to be around for the King's retribution. Only once the Palace gates had closed behind them did Alistair relax his guard, handing his weapons over to a squire and dismounting in time to assist his beloved down from her horse himself. The feel of her thickened waist under his hands, the sight of her little freckled face with the fear fading from it, was a blessing. His own terror for her safety began to recede and he wrapped his arms around her as she buried her face in his chest.

"Thank the Maker you're safe, love."

There was a distinct sniffle from against his doublet and Maddy's face when she raised it to him was woebegone. "Oh, _mon mari_, I missed you so. It was dreadful being alone; I was _une_ _reine terrible _without you to guide me." She tugged urgently on his sleeve as the rest of the party dismounted. "Alistair, about Philippe, I let him down so badly and now… when you see him, you mustn't-"

Whatever it was he mustn't do was interrupted by the arrival of Teyrn Cousland, wishing to pay his respects to his King. Alistair turned to him a shade reluctantly, not only because he didn't want to let go of Maddy, but also because… well… this was Melissa's brother and Alistair never met him without feeling some residual guilt that Mel had been the one to die. It was difficult now, with a wife and the prospect of children to brighten his life, to think '_it should have been me'_, but the ghost still lingered, especially in the presence of this dark-haired, dark-eyed man who so resembled his sister.

"Your Majesty." Teyrn Cousland bowed as befitted his rank and held out his hand. "Such a welcome you laid on for us." His brown eyes twinkled, even though they still simmered with battle fever.

"Yes, sorry about that." Alistair gently disengaged himself from Maddy to clasp hands with the Teyrn. "We seem to be having a powerful effect on the populace right now, for some reason. I imagine you were intent on reaching your own estate, rather than the Palace?" At Fergus' nod, Alistair continued. "Thank you for remaining to assist. It would probably be best to allow the guard time to bring the situation under control. In the meantime, my Chamberlain will see to your comfo…"

While they had been speaking the grooms had been busily removing the weary, skittish horses to the stables. The decrease in horseflesh allowed Alistair to see, over Fergus' shoulder, the rest of the group and the sight of one of them drove all coherent thought out of Alistair's head.

_Maker's Breath, what happened?_

Philippe had been half turned away, instructing the groom about some items in his saddlebags, only his left side visible. It was when he turned that Alistair's speech stuttered to a halt. The right side of his face…

It wasn't the first time Alistair had seen such injuries. Previously, though, they had been on strangers or, more often, on corpses bearing marks of Zevran's personal attention. The right eye was covered with a thick pad, held on with a bandage wound around his head. Crawling out from below the bandage was a mass of scar tissue, some shiny smooth, some heavily pocked, which covered pretty much all of Philippe's cheek, jaw and throat. The corner of his mouth was twisted slightly where it had healed, giving him a cynical look at odds with his mild manner and sweet temper.

By the time Alistair realised he was staring, Philippe had turned fully. The remaining deep blue eye which met his held unutterable hurt, dropping away from his gaze while Philippe shifted to turn his face away, hiding the scars from his brother-in-law's eyes. His posture was hunched, shy, completely unlike his usual straight-backed stance.

A sharp poke in the ribs from his wife brought Alistair to his senses, in time to see both Zevran's minatory glare and Maddy's reproachful frown turned his way. _Oops._ Staring was presumably what Maddy had been saying he _mustn't_ do.

_-oOo-_

It took some time to settle everything. The Palace guard, supplemented by a belated contingent of city guard who had hurried up from the Market District, broke up the incipient riot, flinging the worst offenders into jail, knocking heads and dispersing the rest. Bertram, Alistair's Chamberlain, took the Teyrn under his wing, assigning him some temporary rooms where he could rest and freshen up, and ensuring that his men received similar treatment in the barracks and his servants below stairs. Arl Wulff had parted from Maddy prior to the incident in the Noble District and was, one hoped, safely in his own estate by now.

Once all the orders had been given and everyone greeted properly, Alistair carted his wife off to their quarters. And none too soon, in his opinion.

"Maker, Maddy, I missed you so much." They had been parted only a few weeks, but with everything that was happening it felt like an age. With a complete disregard for her increased weight, he scooped her up and settled on a sofa with her on his knee. "Tell me everything." Alistair ran a hand over her swelling stomach. "Starting with this; you're well?"

"Tired more and more, but well, yes. Oh Alistair, they moved! I was so sad that you were not there to feel it." Her small hand closed over his large one, and she snuggled into his lap with a contented sigh. "Now they do so quite often, so you shall feel your children move soon."

"Wow." Moving children. That made them… real. _Wow_. It was hard to think about anything else except the warm, comforting weight of his wife and the presence of babies in her belly, but time was short. Now that the Arl and Teyrn were finally here the Landsmeet would have to be held quickly. _Before that damnable Legate does any more damage._ "I want to hear everything that's happened, Maddy, but first of all, what in the Maker's name happened to Philippe?"

Maddy sat up, distressed. "Oh, _mon mari_, it was terrible. When Zevran said there was an assassin in camp we were all so sure he had come for me. We had so many guards set around me at night, and all the time… Oh, I could _kill _Celene for this."

"Celene, _Celene_ ordered a contract on Philippe?" Alistair was outraged. "She's his _sister_, a cold-hearted reptile of a sister, but still his sister."

"No, not her. It was that, that _salope_ who Celene was trying to marry him to. Not enough to ruin his life, to force him into an unhappy marriage. No, instead she tries to tie him to a _murderess, _and now… Oh, Alistair, you saw him, you saw how he tries to hide. He's so broken and I don't know what to _do_."

Alistair hugged her and produced a handkerchief for the tears that trickled down her face. "Maker, Maddy, I didn't even know he was to be married. Go back to the beginning…"

_-oOo-_

The palace just wasn't secure enough. A child could scale to these balconies; a _baby_ could open these windows. Zevran prowled from corridor to corridor, making the lives of various guards and senior servants hell with his criticisms and demands. Eventually he found Bertram, the King's Chamberlain, who at least recognised him and took his strictures seriously. He dragged the hapless man from one wing to another, making demand upon demand until they were both exhausted.

It couldn't be made safe enough, nowhere could.

Zev hadn't slept in three days, not since he'd first spotted that _maledetto_ _ragazzo_ in camp. A Crow could go much longer without sleep, but not without _some_ form of rest. Ever since the attack he'd been active, focussed. He was still wired, unable to stop, unable to meditate, his brain still buzzing busily. He dismissed the thankful Chamberlain and went to his comfortable rooms, but it was no use, he couldn't rest here, not when-

Not when there might still be danger.

It was foolish, he knew. The cell had been eliminated and the Principessa was unlikely to send more. But too much remained unresolved, too much remained unsaid, and Philippe had gone into hiding like a wounded animal after seeing Alistair's expression.

"_Affanculo_. Fuck it."

Grabbing a pair of daggers, Zevran exited the room in a final burst of grim energy, heading for the wing housing the King and Queen, and their immediate family, which had already endured the bulk of his proposed security measures.

_-oOo-_

With the King and Queen securely tucked up in their apartments enjoying a cosy reunion, Kallian had the luxury of time to herself for the first time in weeks. Having washed and unpacked, she wasted no time in diving back out into the city, cutting through a quiet corner of the Noble District and threading her way through the busy Market District. She pulled a few curious looks for her fine arms and armour, but nowhere near as many as she would have expected. The reason for this became apparent once she reached the gates of the Alienage, and saw some of the elves entering and leaving: a fair few of them were armed and wearing simple, shabby dock-guard's armour.

That was her first shock.

The next came when she entered the Alienage proper and saw the improvements there; houses that had been dilapidated beyond repair had been pulled down and rebuilt, while those merely needing a new roof or a few new planks in their walls had received the care they needed.

There seemed to be very few people around, though. Admittedly it was the middle of the afternoon, but usually about half the Alienage was out of work, so there would always be people hanging around, looking morose.

Now there was just a scattering of women and children, a few elderly and-

"Kalli!" She spun at the familiar voice, to see Shianni barrelling towards her, beaming all over her face. "I heard that the Queen was back, so I finished work early, hoping you'd come down here. Wow, look at you." Shianni spun her friend around, surveying her fine leathers, her eyes round with wonder. "You look _fantastic_."

Kallian shrugged, her face tinged with colour, uncomfortable with the admiration in her cousin's eyes. "S'just what I need for my work, no big deal." She perked up a trifle at a stray thought. "And hey, I'm not the only one armed! What's been going on?"

"_All_ kinds of things. Your King Alistair has been busy." Shianni tucked her arm through Kallian's. "I'll tell you all about it over a drink. You brought a drink, right?" She grinned when Kalli produced a bottle from under her cloak. "That's my girl. C'mon, let's go inside and get warm; it's bitter here once the sun goes down."

The telling took some time. Telling of Kallian's adventures took longer. Shianni sat open-mouthed while Kalli described, in fits and starts and short reluctant sentences, how she'd been arrested in Redcliffe for the murder of a noble and how the King and Queen had saved her. She skimmed over the sore spots in her story; how she'd broken down in the jail and how the _shem_- how her _friends_ had come and supported her. _That_ memory was a precious one, too precious to share over a bottle.

"And they all treat you… like what?" Shianni's curiosity was evident in her sharp face, supported on her hands with her elbows on the table between them. "Like an elf, or not? You're a _Knight of Ferelden_, for the Maker's sake, the first elven one… ever… as far as I know. Ser Kallian." She tasted the words, savouring them as she spoke. "What's it like?"

"S'no different, really. I'm the Queen's bodyguard. I can wear my armour and weapons openly, which is great. I was sick of that damned dress." Kalli struggled to put it into words. The camaraderie with some of the King's Own, and especially Ced. The affection that had slowly grown up with Maddy, and even with Alistair a bit. When they met other nobles, their guards behaved like guards the world over, but she had standing now, and the right to tell them to go boil their heads. But with Shianni sat watching her it was all so hard to explain.

"You remember when Maddy first came here, and Valendrian wanted me to take this job?" Shianni nodded, and Kalli pressed on. "I hated _shem_ nobles so bad; I thought they were all alike. And here was this little Orlesian _shem_ in her expensive clothes, trying to tell me that in some ways her life and mine were the same. I wanted to punch her." Kalli frowned, remembering. "But I went to work for her anyway, and you know why?"

"Because it was a great job?"

"No, although there's no denyin' that it was." Kalli took another slug, straight out of the bottle. It was an expensive wine, picked up in the Market on the way across to the Alienage. The shopkeeper had assumed she was buying it for her employers. "I took the job because she thought I was worth arguing with. It didn't matter that her argument was garbage, that she had no idea what my life was like. Maddy spoke to me like it mattered what I thought. No _shem_ had ever done that."

"Right, I get that." Shianni plucked the bottle from her fingers and took a swig herself. "And now they all care what you think. They all have to recognise that you count."

Kalli shrugged. "I dunno about that. But _she_ still does."

After that they changed the subject, Shianni recounting who was newly married, or moved away, all the normal gossip of Alienage life. It was nice to spend a few hours with her cousin, although if Kalli was honest with herself, she felt distanced from everyone else who popped in to say hello as the evening progressed. She saw the way their eyes travelled over her fine armour, her gleaming daggers. It was the same way the servants in the manors and castles they had stayed in looked at her. She was '_Palace_' now, something separate, something other. There was no real place for her here, not anymore. For the first time, she realised why Zevran was as he was. She'd envied his poise, his ability to behave as though his elven heritage was an irrelevance, but hadn't truly understood it. People looked at him and saw '_Crow_' not elf. He was accustomed to being defined by something other than his ears. And now, finally, so was she.

_-oOo-_

"_Entrez_."

Philippe remained by the window, looking out over Maddy's barren winter garden, as he responded to the knock at the door. He had no desire to be gawked at by the servants.

"If we must remain in this abominably unsafe _palazzo, mio principe_, then you must resign yourself to sharing." Philippe turned sharply, to find Zevran hanging his weapon baldric from a hook. The daggers it contained had been flung on the bed. "Unless, of course, you wish me to develop unbecoming bags under my eyes? No? I thought not." Leather armour was being unbuckled and placed, piece by piece, upon the empty armour stand with which every room in Ferelden appeared to be equipped.

The sight of Zevran, apparently undressing in his rooms, stole all thought from Philippe for a moment. It returned in fragments, beginning with an obvious one. "Zevran, what are you doing here?"

"Is it not obvious? I am preparing to sleep. It would seem that here is the only place where I may have a small chance to do so." Zevran was down to shirt and trousers and appeared to be satisfied with this level of undress. He slid the daggers under one of the pillows and flung himself down on the bed with a tired sigh, closing his eyes. There were indeed smudges under those eyes and Philippe frowned, remembering how often he had woken during that nightmare time to find Zev in attendance on him. "I should have done this earlier. If I had, then I would have been able to protect you." A shadow crossed the assassin's beautiful face, and the sleepy golden eyes he opened held guilt. "I am sorry, _tesoro_, I failed you."

"_Non, absolument pas_." Whatever other demons may be troubling Philippe, he was quite, quite certain about this, at least. "You saved my life, and I-" Tears pricked his left eye, while the right burned where the tear duct had been. "I am grateful," he added lamely. Nothing could do justice to what had occurred, and certainly not mere words. "Sleep, Zevran, now is not the time for talk." He pulled the loops which held back the heavy curtains, excluding the fading light of a winter's afternoon and plunging the room into dimness, and then went to sit by the fire where he could see well enough to write and read.

"Promise you will not leave the room without me." The words were drowsy, but insistent, and Philippe smiled with an edge of bitterness.

"I promise." The words came easily. _After all, where could I take this monster face which makes children cry and even my friends stare in horror?_

_-oOo-_

The hour was late when a shadow slipped over the wall of the Cathedral, entering through a high window and ghosting down a single hall to the intended destination. No attempt was made to bypass the pair of Templars on the door, she was expected and they nodded her through without a word.

The man seated at the desk looked up at her entry and smiled.

"Sister Leliana, thank you for coming. Please, be seated."

"I am not a Sister, Your Holiness. I was only ever a lay-sister and I left the Chantry a long time ago." Leliana took the seat opposite that he offered her and regarded the Legate warily.

"A great loss to the Chantry, no doubt, and yet what you went on to achieve during the Blight was extremely worthy work. The Maker works in mysterious ways."

"In that, we are in agreement, Your Holiness." She cocked her head like a bird, regarding him curiously. "But on little else, at this time, no? So, I have to wonder why you asked me to meet with you."

Brother Guido folded his hands on the desk, surveying her in his turn. His demeanour was calm and his gaze steady. "You already know the answer to that, do you not? It is my wish to prevent a disastrous rift between Ferelden and the Chantry. Surely you would agree that it would be better to avoid such a thing?"

The bland look she sent him brought a sigh of irritation to his thin lips. "Do not waste my time with protestations of ignorance, _Sorella_, you and I both know what your friend King Alistair intends. What I do not understand is how one so devout as yourself can support him in this. To cut off the faithful from the support of the Chantry, to remove them from the bosom of Andraste's love; this is a terrible thing."

A slightly stubborn look came into Leliana's angelic blue eyes. "The Chantry does not hold a monopoly on Andraste's love, Your Holiness. It is available to everyone. And I already told you I am not a Sister."

The Legate smiled, pleased at her understanding of Antivan. "I beg to disagree; you hold the Maker too close to your heart to be aught else. You will return to us one day, I think. For the moment all I ask is that you examine your conscience and decide whether you truly wish for this terrible chasm to open before the Fereldan people." He tapped a finger on the desk and his next words held just a shade of hesitation. "The errors of the Chantry do not go unrecognised. These will be… corrected, in the days to come. If Ferelden will only wait, if King Alistair will delay his rash action, then I can assure you that the Chantry will have leadership in which he may place his trust."

Leliana's lips parted slightly, demonstrating how well she had understood. "Not merely the Fereldan Chantry, if I read you correctly."

He didn't respond directly, and she didn't expect him to. "Use your influence to prevent this rash and unnecessary action, please." The Brother stood, holding out his hand to bid her farewell. "You know, I heard you sing once, at the house of some Orlesian noble, I forget which. You sung beautifully, with all the full-throated joy and abandon of a nightingale. Your voice is not the least of the gifts the Maker bestowed upon you." The grasp of Brother Guido's hand was dry and firm and he escorted her to the door with courtly courtesy. "Whatever the outcome of this matter, _Sorella_, if you decide to return to the Chantry, come see me. It would please me greatly to have your assistance in our efforts to secure the future of the faithful."

_oOo-_


	57. Chapter 57

_-oOo-_

Zev slept well, one hand tucked under the pillow where he could feel the hilt of his daggers, comforted by the knowledge that any foreign sound in the room would wake him. He was vaguely aware of the scratching of Philippe's pen over by the fire, before sleep pulled him further down. Later, much later, only the popping or shifting of a log broke the quiet, and he woke briefly to find the warmth of another clothed body spooned in front of his and a coverlet pulled over both of them. The hand he slipped around to press to a hard chest was gripped by another, fingers clasping his. Sleep claimed him again.

He woke to grey morning light, to find himself once again alone on the bed in his rumpled clothes and Philippe in the doorway, murmuring to a servant. Even half-asleep he could see how Philippe semi-hid behind the door, keeping the servant in the hall while she received his instructions. When the maid had bobbed a curtsey and left, and the door was closed, Philippe turned. Seeing Zev awake, he gave him a timid smile that pulled at both the scarred corner of his mouth and Zevran's heart.

"Good morning, _mon ami_. I have ordered breakfast for both of us."

"Excellent, I could eat a horse, I think." The words were light, neutral, but Zev kept his eyes on his prince's face, noting how he tried to keep his right side turned away and how his usually tidy hair hung around his face like a disguising curtain. "Are they bringing hot water, also?" Zev stretched languidly, seeing how Philippe's gaze travelled over him before flicking away. "I was too tired yesterday to remove the road dust."

"T-they are bringing water for my bath, I think." Zev didn't miss the slight stutter. "Y-you wish to bathe here?"

"I'm not leaving you alone, _mio principe_, you may as well get used to it." The words were flat and allowed no protest. The terror he'd felt when tearing across the camp to his Prince's tent tugged at him again. _Twice they died. A third time and I die too._ He kept his eyes on Philippe, permitting him to see as much, or as little, of this as could not be kept from his face. Zev swallowed hard and spoke as he must. "Be warned. If you send me away now, I leave entirely and you shall not see me again. I can only stand so much, _amore mio_."

The words hung in the air and Philippe nodded jerkily. "I know. I- There is more to be said, but perhaps we should eat first."

"As you wish."

They maintained a strained silence until breakfast arrived, and a slightly more comfortable silence as they ate. The arrival of hot water put paid to any plan to immediately resume their conversation and Philippe courteously offered the usage of it to Zevran. "I bathed yesterday, when we arrived. Reserve a little hot water for the ewer so that I may wash my hands and face, and that will suffice."

A more thorough investigation of the suite assigned to the Queen's brother brought the discovery of a comfortable sitting-room – which Zevran was thankful Philippe had not retired to last night to read and write, as he needed him close by right now – and a separate bathing room and water closet. Zevran scowled at the bath in this discreet little room and made his way deliberately back into the bedroom, pouring the hot water from the buckets into the bath in the corner of the room, and stripping off his clothes without ceremony. He kept his eyes on his task, cautiously dipping a toe into the bath and adding more cold water, allowing Philippe to look his fill in peace should he wish to do so.

Only when he was immersed in gloriously warm water did Zevran lift his eyes to find Philippe staring shamelessly. Despite the frisson of exhibitionist pleasure this provoked, Zev found his own gaze drawn to the somewhat travel-stained bandage which still covered one eye.

"You are healed, are you not? Surely you no longer require that… thing."

Philippe immediately turned his head away. "My skin is healed, yes, but the eye is blind. Anders couldn't fix it entirely."

"Come here_, tesoro_."

For a moment he thought Philippe would refuse, would revert to the skittish manner which had kept him at a distance for so long. There was reluctance in his body language as he took the first tentative steps towards where Zevran lay at ease in the bath, but it seemed to be more about a new shyness than the old prudery. Zev sat up, displacing water with a splash, and reached out a hand, pulling Philippe down to kneel beside the bath. When he lifted his other hand to the bandage Philippe flinched away, ducking his head.

"Please, Zevran, it's not… pretty."

"_Amore_, I was with you before Anders arrived and healed you, remember? Trust me, I am unshockable."

Zevran kept his movements slow and his hands gentle as he unwound the bandage from Philippe's head, until the thick pad that covered his eye was no longer held by the long cloth. He took greater care removing the pad, unsure of exactly how healed the skin below would be.

As it turned out, his care was unnecessary; as with the rest of the scarring, the marks around the eye were shiny-smooth, magic having aged them to several years beyond what they could heal naturally. The lid remained intact and seemed to function properly. The eye itself was a milky-pale orb, and Zev breathed a sigh of relief that it had been saved, even if vision had not. Older colleagues in the Crows had occasionally lost eyes, and stated that the socket itched like a demon forever, producing the sensations of an eyeball that could not be rubbed for surcease of the torment. Philippe had been spared that, at least.

"Is it entirely blind, or does the light hurt you?"

"It's… quite blind, although I get flashes of… something… light, I think. It doesn't hurt, not since the healing."

Zev passed one slim tanned hand over the scarred brow-bone, smoothing down to the acid-pocked cheek. The vulnerability in Philippe's remaining blue eye tore him up inside. _My fault, my fault_. "Come closer." The hand on Philippe's cheek reinforced the request, drawing him down to where Zevran could flutter butterfly kisses over the damaged skin.

A choked sob erupted from the tormented prince. "Zev, how can you-? I mean-"

"Shh." More soft kisses soothed his upset. "You think I should be repulsed, hmm? Never." A firmer kiss was pressed at the corner of Philippe's mouth, where a little knot of scar tissue pulled it into a grimace. "If you do not wish others to see this, then so be it. I shall acquire you a leather eye-patch; you will look like a dashing and handsome pirate. Or an ornate half mask for the right hand side, a specially made _bauta _from Antiva, if that is your preference. It will make you appear very sexy and mysterious, a man with a _past_."

A shaky laugh rewarded his nonsense and he pressed a final kiss to the smooth undamaged skin of Philippe's forehead. "Now that we have discarded that revolting rag, you shall be more comfortable, no? May I impose upon you to wash my back before the water makes me wrinkle up like a raisin in the sun?"

The brisk question seemed to help settle Philippe's nerves and he reached for a cloth without trying to hide his face. In fact, intent upon scrubbing while Zevran purred happily at the friction, he absently tucked the curtain of auburn hair behind his ear, out of the way. Zev smiled in quiet triumph and said nothing.

_-oOo-_

"You may go through, ser." Even though the King was expecting him, Cedric raised his eyebrows enquiringly at the polite manservant. Even from the hall he could hear a clear murmur of voices that showed Alistair was not alone.

"Who is with him, if I may ask?"

"His Majesty is just finishing up his previous meeting, ser. Go on in, he's expecting you."

The door was opened by the servant and smoothly closed behind the Captain. A curious sight met his eyes; the King's visitor was a dwarf, a badly-scarred female who wore plain clothing but positively dripped jewellery. A beam of winter sunlight through the window flashed on the gems set in her necklaces, red, blue and amber stones making a riot of colour around her scarred and withered throat. At his approach this oddity turned disturbingly empty eye sockets his way, her head cocked to one side, listening.

"Cedric, come in. I don't think you've met Shayle," Alistair hesitated slightly before adding, "of House Cadash."

Cedric began a courteous greeting only to be cut off by the dwarf utterly ignoring him and speaking directly to Alistair. "If the Dwarven King does not give me my House back, you will have to squish him for me. Sadly, I can no longer do so myself."

"Don't worry, Shayle, it'll be fine." Alistair demonstrated no shock at the woman's alarming statement that he should kill King Bhelen for her, just warm amusement. "I've arranged for you to travel to Orzammar with the next merchant caravan. They'll take good care of you, and I've written a letter to Bhelen explaining who you are. He'll be ecstatic, I suspect. To have someone at his court who personally knew Caradin! He'll fall on your neck, I bet."

"He'd better not; he might damage my new crystals." The chances of her saying something sensible, or even comprehensible, at some point seemed remote to Cedric, and he was relieved when Alistair took affectionate leave of her, affection that did not in any way appear to be returned, and she stomped out of the door.

Once alone, the King grinned at him. "I bet you've never seen anything like _her_ before." He poured some light ale and shoved a tankard at Cedric. "She used to be a massive stone golem that could crush you to a messy paste in seconds. I still can't believe she's gone back to being a dwarf."

The name clicked in Cedric's mind, as he accepted both the tankard and the seat that Alistair waved him to. _Shale._ "The golem you had during the Blight?"

"The same. Maker, how many golems do you think I know? No, don't answer that. With a life as strange as mine has been…" Alistair shook his head, bemused. "Anyway, that's not why I asked you here."

Cedric waited patiently, while his King thought for a moment, leaning forward in his seat, hands loosely clasped before him.

"You've done good work for me, Ced. Best Guard Captain anyone could ask for. You've trained the King's Own into a unit to be proud of; you've taken good care of my wife when I had to leave her after Orzammar." Alistair smiled ruefully. "More importantly, you stood up to me when you thought I was in the wrong, and stood by your principles. I can respect that."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Cedric knew that his King preferred to be treated informally when they were alone, but the praise seemed to demand more. "It's an honour to serve you." He meant it, too. Serving the King of Ferelden in such a role would always be an honour for any soldier, but this King… this affable, decent young man who tried so hard to help his people… Cedric would cheerfully die to protect him.

Alistair sighed, mournfully. "Losing you is going to be a wrench, Ced. I hope you have someone good in the King's Own to recommend as a replacement." The King's face was full of mischief as Cedric stared at him, taken aback.

"I- er- Are you re-assigning me?" His brain seemed to have stuttered to a stop. There wasn't a single posting in Thedas he'd voluntarily take in place of this one. How could the King praise him so, and then… this?

"In a manner of speaking." Alistair levered himself from his chair and crossed the room, returning with a sealed scroll. "Here's your new assignment, if you'll accept it."

Ced took the parchment in numb fingers. It was heavy vellum, sealed with the royal seal and bound in ribbons in the Ferelden colours.

"Go on, open it."

The thick wax split apart under his thumbnail. When he opened the scroll it was to find that this was merely a protective covering for another scroll held within. This was heavily illuminated, bearing both the crown and rampant mabari of Ferelden, together with another cumbersome beribboned seal, attached to the inside of the document itself.

It held a great deal of closely written script, the language archaic. He hardly needed to read it to know what it was. His father held just such a document, carefully stored in a display case.

"With Teagan now Arl of Redcliffe, I need someone to hold Rainesfere for me, Ced. I can't think of anyone more deserving."

If Cedric had believed his brain to have shut down before, it was as nothing compared to the utter shock that had overtaken him at the sight of the official title he held in his hands. _Bann, I'm to be Bann_. It was a good holding, as least as good as his father's. He stared at the scroll, overcome.

"Well?" He looked up to where his King still stood, waiting on his response. Warm hazel eyes twinkled down at him. "Do you accept?"

"I-" Cedric moistened suddenly dry lips, and tried to clear the obstruction in his throat enough to answer. "Yes, Your Majesty, I'd be honoured to do so."

_-oOo-_

Bathed and wrapped in a robe, Zevran sat at the table as Philippe bid him. Philippe had thought long and hard about this during the previous afternoon and evening, while the only man he'd every truly loved slept the sleep of total exhaustion with one hand on his daggers.

After Philippe had been healed and had returned to the saddle, Maddy had ridden beside him and told him, in tones of incredulous fury, that the attempt on his life had been arranged by the bride Celene had proposed for him. She had expressed herself long and fluently about the rampant idiocy of their Imperial sister. She had also not minced her words about her opinion of what she called his 'attempted martyrdom' in accepting Celene's will at the expense of his own happiness.

That she was right, he could not deny. His stupid inability to take up the reins of his own life had endangered the lives of those he loved, and in particular that of Zevran, who had fought all those assassins single-handed in order to save his miserable life. If he had been resolute, if he had refused the match, if he had told Celene to take her ambition and stick it, together with his lands and duty, then none of this would have happened.

It was his fault, all of it.

Riding into Denerim, seeing the expressions on the faces of those he met, he'd abandoned any shred of hope, resigned to the fact that he had lost everything through his own inaction. He was a horror, a bogey-man to frighten children. Why would any man, particularly one like Zevran, taught to admire and pursue beauty, wish to consort with one so ruined?

It was inconceivable.

And yet there the man lay, professing himself unable or unwilling to sleep elsewhere. While Zevran slept, Philippe had stared into the fire, hopes and fears ticking through his mind and in the end had written two letters. These he now placed on the table before his love.

"It is my wish that you read these, _mon cher_, and tell me which to send." His life hung on this thread, and Philippe could not keep his hands from shaking, so he dropped them into his lap below the line of the table. "This is what I should have done at West Hill, if I'd had the courage, or even back in Redcliffe, when Celene's first letter arrived." A note of heartfelt apology bled into his soft words. "I am so sorry that I did not."

Zevran looked at him searchingly, but Philippe shook his head and nodded to the letters. He didn't need to read them himself to know the words as Zev's eyes travelled across the page. They were engraved in his mind.

_To Celene, Imperial Empress of Orlais,_

_Although I am warmed by your interest in my welfare, I find your choice of bride for me unacceptable. You will understand why when I say that Principessa Luciana sent her personal cell of Antivan Crows to kill me. That she failed was due only to the diligence of another Crow, one Zevran Arainai of whom you will have heard, no doubt._

_Do not, I beg you, endeavour to find me another bride. I fear I may not survive your attention to my welfare a second time. _

_I shall be returning to Ghislain very soon, and you may rest assured that I will no longer neglect my duties in regard to the province, but believe me when I say that I have no desire to be wed._

_With dutiful affection_

_Prince Philippe de Ghislain._

_Written at the Royal Palace in Denerim this 18__th__ day of Haring, 9:33 Dragon_

Zev set the letter down and opened his mouth to speak. Philippe shushed him. "Please, read them both before you say anything."

_To Celene, Imperial Empress of Orlais,_

_My dear sister,_

_Although I am warmed by your interest in my welfare, I find your choice of bride for me unacceptable. You will understand why when I say that Principessa Luciana sent her personal cell of Antivan Crows to kill me. That she failed was due only to the diligence of another Crow, one Zevran Arainai of whom you will have heard, no doubt._

_Do not, I beg you, endeavour to find me another bride. I fear I may not survive your attention to my welfare a second time. In fact, I find that I prefer life, and remaining limb, to any and all aspects of Imperial life. _

_I recognise that you need a Prince willing to devote himself to the needs of Ghislain. I fear I am no longer he. It is my wish that you take back my lands, and all chattels pertaining to it, and find just such a noble to bestow them upon. I would hand you my title also, should that be possible, but I fear it is not. Rest assured that I have no desire at all to use it, or to allow my life from this point to reflect upon the Imperial blood I bear in my veins._

_It is my hope that you will find my loss acceptable, and accept my assurances that I bear you no ill will. I merely wish to live my life as a free man, not an Imperial Prince._

_With affection_

_Philippe_

_Written at the Royal Palace in Denerim this 18__th__ day of Haring, 9:33 Dragon_

Zevran set the letter down with undue care, squaring the corners of the sheet before him before raising his eyes. "What is it that you are asking me, _mio principe_?"

Philippe drew a shaky, nervous breath before responding. "My views have not altered, Zevran. It is my hope, however, that I have finally found the courage to truly live by them. I will not, I _cannot_, offer you a place at my side in Ghislain. I know that, in your eyes, to be paramour to royalty holds no shame, but I wholeheartedly believe you deserve better. If you choose that letter, then I leave for Orlais alone."

"I see." An unnatural calm hung around Zevran. Philippe watched him nervously. "And the other?"

"If you choose the other, then we may go wherever you please, assuming that Celene does not have me killed for my presumption. I have money, inherited money, quite separate from the estate. We will not be poor. Or we may stay here; I know Maddy would be happy to have us do so. But I have to ask… I have to say…" Philippe licked dry lips, trying to quell the nerves in his stomach. He forced himself to look Zev directly in the eye. "I have to say to you: if you choose for me to send Celene the second letter, then you must understand how seriously I will take your choice. You will be mine, Zevran, and I shall be yours. We will stand before a Chantry altar and declare our bond in the Maker's gaze. I cannot give up my heritage for less."

The finality of the words both horrified and relieved Philippe. They were said, and could not be retracted. Before Zev could respond, he hurried into further speech, torn out of him by his fears, just as the rest had been fuelled by his hopes. "If you simply cannot bear to tie yourself to a man as… ugly and damaged as I am now, then I will understand. You may tell me so, or you may choose the first letter. The result will be the same, after all."

A savage scowl replaced the unnatural calm. "_That_ is a thing I never wish to hear from you again. Do not _dare_ to diminish yourself so." One swift move carried an obviously annoyed Zevran from his seat to stand before Philippe. The first letter, the shorter of the two, was gripped in his fingers. Philippe's heart sank, disappointment settling around him. He had known that this was the most likely outcome; it was too much to ask-

Zev crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it into the fire in a single angry gesture. He snagged Philippe's chin in his fingers and scowled down at him. "Never again say such a thing, _amore mio_. Or you will face my severest displeasure."

_Sacré Coeur d'Andraste_, _he_-

Philippe blinked at the fire, seeing the parchment crisp and curl, and then back up at Zevran. "Really? You want to…"

He was pulled up from his seat by those insistent fingers gripping his chin. "_Severest_ displeasure, my prince. Do not forget it." Zev's mouth was raised to his and the fingers on his chin pulled his lips down to meet it before sweeping around to tangle in his hair. Oh, sandalwood and spice, pure _Zevran_. Every time he'd tasted this, he'd wanted more. And now…

_Now it's all_ mine.

It was a heady thought which mixed deliciously with the kiss. To be free to thread a hand in cornsilk hair, to plunder the warm mouth on his without guilt or worry, to press against the lithe, muscular body which offered itself with such abandon… these were pleasures that Philippe had been denying himself for a long, long time and he took full advantage of them.

Busy fingers worked at the closures of his shirt; to permit the action denoted blissful freedom. The feel of Zev's hands on his skin, pushing the shirt from his shoulders, brought such a keen surge of need that he staggered, dizzy. He clutched at the bathing robe Zevran wore, in order to keep his balance, fortuitously finding that the strip of fabric he clung to was the tie belt. A simple tug allowed the heavy garment to fall away, and Philippe grounded his senses in flesh, smoothing his hands over tanned skin, dipping his head to the strong column of Zev's throat. His tongue, pressing hard on a pulse-point, drew a groan from the elf, whose warm mouth and clever hands remained busy, touching, teasing, and somehow removing clothes with the minimum of effort.

"Mercy!" The gasping plea was drawn from Philippe by the first skilful touches on his sensitive length. "It has been… a very long time."

"Do not concern yourself, _cuore mio_. We have all day, do we not?" Zevran pushed him back into the seat behind him, leaning down to kiss from throat to groin. Soft, long hair tickled his thighs while the very tip of a tongue touched his-

Oh! Such sensation, after so many years. But, glorious though the feeling was, this was not what Philippe craved, what he needed. For months he had dreamed of embracing Zevran, of feeling silky skin over hard muscle sliding against his. He wanted to drink him in, lose himself in his lover.

"Zevran-" Speech was difficult and becoming more so by the moment. "The bed."

Molten amber eyes lifted to his face and Philippe thanked the Maker with all his heart that they held no revulsion, only desire.

"Please, _mon coeur_, I wish to hold you."

A tug on his wrist signified all the agreement he needed. It was only a few strides to the bed, and they tumbled onto it together, bronze skin tangled with pale. Philippe enfolded Zev in a loving embrace and drowned him in kisses, long drugging kisses that left them gasping. On their sides, face to face, they writhed in unison, in partnership, to bring pleasure each to the other. Skin against skin they moved until Philippe could feel nothing, think of nothing, know _nothing_ that was not Zevran. They were immersed in each other, mouth to mouth, body to body until the tension that built between them began to demand attention of its own.

Their movements became more imperative, their kisses breaking down into groans and panting breaths. A slight shift of position from Zev and the friction almost doubled, taking them to new heights, where sensation was focussed in a single spot and all they could do with hands and mouth was cling to each other, press fervent kisses to throat and shoulder, and allow their passion to take its course. Philippe's climax hit him with all the power of a vast ocean wave, dammed up for too long. He could vaguely hear Zevran murmuring encouragement, and distantly feel his lover's hand on his hair. When his senses returned, Zev's hips still moved urgently, and Philippe held him close, raining kisses on his face and hair while his beautiful elven love, his joy, his life, took the final steps over his personal precipice.

The stillness that followed, the surcease of action, was a place of bliss for Philippe. The fluids that coated them were nothing, they would bathe again and all would be well. The mere presence of the man quivering against him, returning to him from the peak, was everything in the world he needed.

With Zev's face buried in his shoulder, only his tender temple was in reach, so that was what Philippe kissed, slow and gentle, savouring the soft flesh. "We shall collect my sister and go down to the Palace Chantry this very day, _mon amour_. I am yours now, and I wish to declare it in the Maker's sight."

There was something strangely humble in Zev's golden eyes when he raised his head, an expression that Philippe had not seen before and didn't quite understand. The slim tanned hand he reached up to brush back Philippe's hair from his face was oddly hesitant.

"If that is truly what you desire… then so be it." The humility dissolved into a fierce determination which was far more familiar. "I shall keep you safe, _amorino_, this I swear."

Tears pricked Philippe's good eye and he rested his forehead against his lover's, overwhelmed. "I know."

_-oOo-_


	58. Chapter 58

_-oOo-_

The sawing and hammering attracted a certain amount of attention – mainly stall-keepers wishing to ascertain exactly what was going to be sold on this structure, and whether it might cut into their own profits. The workers shrugged, unconcerned provided they, at least, were getting paid.

"Don't think he's sellin' nuffin'," one of them said, leaning on a lumphammer. "You've seen the posters, right? Sez it'll be _free_."

'Free' wasn't a word you heard much around here, especially since the Siege. Everyone was feeling the pinch. A frisson of excitement began to work its way around those who lived and worked in the vicinity of Denerim Market.

Despite the fact that the hour for the demonstration, splashed across the colourful posters, was some time away, a crowd began to gather. The chippies ignored them, concentrating on getting the stage finished, taking regular tea-breaks, and stashing as much spare wood and nails as they could to carry away when their job was done. The King was paying for this little caper, so it's not like they were stealing from anyone _real_.

_-oOo-_

"A shocking thing, is it not, Your Eminence?" If Grand Cleric Leanna's white-knuckled grip on the gaudy poster was anything to go by then yes, it was shocking indeed. Sister Letitia smiled inwardly, while maintaining her outward composure. Brother Guido had judged this foolish woman correctly. Not that this surprised his devoted assistant; the good Brother judged _everyone_ correctly. "I brought it to you straightaway; this dangerous exhibition is imminent and I thought you should know."

"The _apostate_ goes too far, this time," the word was a vile curse in the Grand Cleric's mouth, "and the King, also. How _dare_ they plan such a thing without consulting the Chantry." She crumpled the paper in her hand and stalked to the door, throwing it open. "I want a full troop of Templars ready to march in half an hour. I will see this troublemaker in the Chantry dungeon by nightfall." Outside the door the Templar on guard struck his chest with his fist and turned to leave.

Sister Letitia jumped in hastily. A full troop wouldn't suit their plan at all. "Consider, Your Eminence, how that will appear. The Landsmeet vote is tomorrow, and you know how delicate our negotiations with the nobles have been. To manhandle and imprison one of the Grey Wardens, a hero of the Amaranthine crisis, who is acting on the instructions of his King? It would do the Chantry cause a great disservice at this time."

The pinched, discontented face that Grand Cleric Leanna turned to her did not appear convinced, but at least she waved a hand at the Templar, staying him from pursuing the command as yet. "I will _not_ permit this outrage to occur in Denerim, practically in sight of the Cathedral! They insult Andraste's law with this… this…" She shook the hand containing the scrunched-up poster distastefully, her body language attempting to express a thing for which no words were bad enough.

"No, Your Eminence, of course you should not permit it. I agree completely. But perhaps we can turn this to our advantage. It would be damaging to arrest him, but think what a wonderful impression it will have upon the populace if you were to make an impromptu personal appearance." Sister Letitia's face was rapt, apparently caught up in the splendour of this idea. "The Word of Andraste, preached by the Grand Cleric herself in order to sway the public away from this heresy; surely _that_ will secure us the final votes we need, whilst shaming all those present into rejecting this heinous offer."

It was a silly speech, which would have fallen flat on its face with pretty much every Grand Cleric in Thedas. When Brother Guido had coached her in it, Sister Letitia had made a rare protest, saying that surely the Grand Cleric would reject it out of hand. _Trust me, Sister_, he'd said, _she will eat it up with a spoon_.

Leanna's plump face had softened significantly in the face of the flattering word-picture painted. A glow entered her dark eyes, suggesting that she was imagining it all: the cheers of the crowd, perhaps their enthusiastic prayers, and, of course, the downfall of the dastardly apostate. _Maker knows why the Divine appointed this zealot_, thought Sister Letitia. But then it was all of a piece with so many of Divine Beatrix's decisions of late; like so many of her predecessors she had become strange in her old age, determined to make the Chantry's mark, _her_ mark, on the world before she died.

The Grand Cleric turned to the waiting Templar. "My personal guard," she ordered, "to be ready in half an hour."

"As you command, Your Eminence."

_-oOo-_

Anders beamed down at the gathered crowd. A sea of expectant faces was turned up to him, noses and chins reddened by the winter cold. A thin cordon of guards, a mixture of King's and City Guard roped in for the occasion, surrounded the low stage, holding back the crowds. Beside him, on the raised planks, was Ser Bryant's solid presence, in full Templar regalia.

Anders, former apostate, Warden, Court Mage and unrepentant user of magic raised his arms high, allowing a sharp, white flare of unfocussed magic to form around his fingers. A grin split his face, wide enough to make his head appear in danger of falling off.

"Hellooo Denerim!"

_-oOo-_

"Maddy," Alistair's protests sounded feeble even to his own ears, and did nothing to stop the busy fingers buttoning him into his best doublet, "for the Maker's sake, we can't attend a, a... whatever-this-is today." He couldn't bring himself to call it a wedding. This was two men, the idea was ridiculous. "The Landsmeet is tomorrow."

His wife's mouth set in a stubborn line. "I do not care. My brother is taking vows before the Maker and we will be there to see it." She finished the line of intricate silk buttons and smoothed the embroidered fabric over his chest. "You saw him, _mon mari_." Her eyes, when she raised them to him, were filled with sudden tears. "You saw what he was like, how he hid his face, how he shied away from even his friends and family. He has been so ever since the attack, ever since Anders healed him. And now…" she took her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped away the moisture below her eyes, "…now he looks alive again, like my darling brother should." Maddy tucked the handkerchief away again with a purposeful gesture. "So, if he wants us to see him exchange vows with Zevran, then that is what we will do."

Alistair could withstand any amount of argument, but he couldn't withstand his wife's tears. He meekly allowed her to fuss over his appearance a little longer before ushering him to the door.

_-oOo-_

Ser Bryant had been dubious, extremely dubious, when the plan had been put before him. For mages to assist with healing was not unknown; a number of nobles had a mage assigned to their estate, solid, reliable mages chosen by the First Enchanter and Knight Commander to be entrusted with such a duty. For a mage to be allowed to assist in towns where plague had struck was also not totally unheard of.

For a mage to offer a public demonstration of free healing in the capital city, to put up posters exhorting the populace to bring their sick and injured relatives to be healed… _that _was so radical, Ser Bryant had thought it a joke at first.

It wasn't a joke, not even a little bit.

He hadn't realised until now exactly _how many_ people needed such help. It seemed half of Denerim had brought someone: babes in arms, hacking and coughing with croup; children with rickets, stumbling on misshapen legs; adults with injuries from their work, burns, gashes, even amputations going putrid under filthy rags.

By some kind of miracle the guards were keeping order, allowing one or two onto the stage at once. Anders' stamina appeared endless compared to the mages Ser Bryant had known, his grip on the Fade so expert that he could grasp tiny amounts and use it to work marvels, his mind so focussed that the Templar wasn't feeling the slightest threat from him.

For the first time he truly began to understand what the King was trying to achieve with his reforms; mages like this should be allowed to work, should be encouraged to serve the community, just as Templars and Sisters did. The crowd seemed to agree; to start with there had been suspicion, fear, and Anders initial flashy display had not helped. Now the mood had turned, and each grateful smile and word of thanks, each person who walked off the stage under their own steam, brought a cheer and another surge forward from those still waiting. More observers were gathering, drawn by the prospect of free entertainment. The crowd was now about eight or ten deep in places and growing all the time.

The latest patient was a young boy, an elf of maybe eight years old. The child had a fever, was babbling, barely conscious. 'Dropsy of the brain' was Anders' murmured diagnosis before he plucked energy from the Fade and plunged into a focussed state of healing. The mother stood by, wringing her hands in her shabby dress, obviously intimidated in such company.

When a flash of light hit the corner of Ser Bryant's eye he thought at first it was magic, overflowing from the healing and sparkling in the air. Turning towards it, he saw instead a familiar sight; the gleam of armour with a splash of colour, yellow and purple on sashes and the sun symbol on the banner held high. Four Templars formed up around the one figure he really, really, didn't want to see right now, pushing through the outskirts of the crowd, forcing their way to where magic glowed blue over the head of a sick child.

The Grand Cleric… and she didn't look _at all_ happy.

_-oOo-_

Anyone looking at Zevran, and quite a few eyes were upon him as he approached the altar, would see only a calm exterior, a façade which fell easily into place, beaten into him by a series of brutal Crow trainers.

Under the surface, fear and trepidation roiled like a bubbling pot above the roaring fire of emotion that had carried him this far. Philippe's words thundered through his brain.

_You will be mine, Zevran, and I shall be yours_.

Merciful Andraste, could it be possible? Could such a thing exist for such as he?

All his training was screaming at him to run. _He's weak, a burden to you; a Crow does not risk himself for the sake of another. Flee now, hide, and be safe_.

_Twice they died. A third time and I die too. _ To run away from this would be worse than death. There would be no peace in the world, no place he could run where Philippe's face, his smile, his scent, the touch of his hand would not follow. Better to take the risk, to do his best to keep his gentle lover safe, than to wander the world, not knowing if he lived or died.

The Revered Mother, elderly and frail, who tended the Palace chantry, was speaking, but Zevran could not take in her words. All his awareness was centred on the man stood to his right. Even stood a couple of feet apart, he could feel Philippe's heat, catch a whiff of his skin; hear the soft certainty in his voice as he gave some ritual response.

_All this is not for a whoreson like you_.

"The Maker saw in Andraste purity and strength,  
Here was one worthy to stand beside him."

Finding parts of the Chant suitable for an exchange of life vows was not an easy task. The Chant was heavy on blood and thunder, but not so hot on positive affirmations. The Revered Mother had fallen back on the section related to the marriage of the Maker and Andraste; it wasn't her fault that the words tore at Zevran like knives.

_Worthy_. He could never be worthy, even if he tried all his life long.

_He thinks you are_.

And that was the wonder of it, the pure, shining miracle. That was the spur that drove him forward, that allowed him to make his formal responses. That was why he could offer his finger for the bodkin – so strange that the Chantry used something so similar to blood magic in their ceremony – why he could watch the bead of blood well up and mingle it with Philippe's, proud that his hand did not shake. The face of his lover, his partner for life now, was calm, serene, totally confident. Zevran would die a thousand deaths before he destroyed that confidence, before he saw that beloved face, so beautiful and yet so ruined, crumple with disillusionment.

He heard a little sniffle from the seats behind them where their friends and family bore witness: Maddy, Alistair, Leliana, Kallian. So few, and yet they were a rich abundance to Zevran. But the greatest treasure stood here, smiling gently, while the Revered Mother wound down the Chant.

Philippe, standing there, right hand clasped to his, their blood mingling from the tiny cuts, with such love beaming from his remaining blue eye that Zevran could hardly bear it.

_I will protect you _marito mio_. I swear it in the Maker's sight_.

_-oOo-_

"_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places_."

Declaiming the familiar words soothed Leanna's heart as she strode through the gap created by her Templars. Ahead, she could see the flare of magic, unholy and illegal, bathing the front row in strange light.

"_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death  
Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favour_."

The Maker's children, spread out around her in all their splendour were in need of His grace, their faces turned from Him by the dazzle of the forbidden. The cheers they gave to this monster rightly belonged to the Maker and his Divine Bride. It was her duty to ensure that They received Their due again.

"Cease this abominable display this instant!" Leanna had reached the steps to the stage, her Templars facing off against the armoured cordon that surrounded it. "Let me through! I am the Grand Cleric of Ferelden and I demand access."

It seemed that the guards hesitated, turning to the stage for instruction. When she followed their gaze, she gasped, outraged. "You, Ser Knight. Yes, you. How dare you countenance this outrage. I will see you stripped of your rank for this." The Templar, hovering next to where the apostate still worked on his patient, closed his eyes briefly and nodded to the guards. They parted and the Grand Cleric stormed onto the stage.

The apostate continued with his unholy work, utterly ignoring her, and she longed to instruct her Templars to smite him where he stood. Mindful of Sister Letitia's arguments, she stayed her hand. _Once the King's heretical aims have been squashed, we shall crush them all_. Instead, she turned to the crowd, her hand raised in benediction, Andraste's sacred banner above her head.

She began to speak.

_-oOo-_

Shadowy figures moved through the crowd, intent not on the mage, or the cleric on the stage, but on the crowd itself. It had taken little effort so far to buoy their mood, to keep them enlivened. Boisterous was the ideal aim, for a boisterous crowd can turn ugly in a second. The arrival of the Grand Cleric had dampened their mood somewhat; many had arrived believing that magic was dangerous and bad, and now here was the Grand Cleric herself reminding them of that fact.

A verbal nudge here and there, a shouted catcall, a little booing put them back on track. _The mage has been doing good work, has been helping people. When did the Chantry last do that, eh?_

Other clever tongues worked to provide the other ingredient, to create the alchemical mix that would explode into action. _Her Eminence has the right of it; a few healed people doesn't change Andraste's holy word, it doesn't alter the reality of how dangerous magic is_.

The crowd became restless, the alchemy of conflict fizzing through them. They began to push against the thin cordon of guards, the slender rope that separated them from the targets of their turmoil. At the chokepoint of the stairs, the guards began to buckle under the weight.

_-oOo-_

_Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
_

Her rhetoric having reduced the crowd to a rumbling cauldron of discontent, Grand Cleric Leanna had fallen back on the Chant. Ser Bryant glanced desperately over to where Anders was just finishing the healing. The Templar had been reluctant to intervene, and had done all he could to stay the hands of his colleagues from doing so. _Brothers, the child could die if you stop this. Do you want his blood on your hands?_

It seemed they didn't. One of the four, a young blond Templar he didn't recognise, had removed his helm and stood watching the display with more curiosity than anything else, his gaze flicking between the healer's intent, focussed face and the Grand Cleric's angry visage.

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
should they set themselves against me_.

The healing over, Anders looked up. In his face Ser Bryant saw the healer overtaken by the mischief-maker and groaned inwardly.

"Anders, don't."

A twinkle and a quirk of the lips was all his admonishment gained him. The mage sauntered forward to where the Grand Cleric still addressed the crowd and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning.

"Tell me, ladies and gents. When did she ever do anything for you?" He jerked his thumb to the woman at his side, who gasped in outrage. Behind him a tearful parent was helping her boy down from the makeshift table; the child looking around, his eyes clear and intelligent.

"How _dare you_. The Chantry does good works, without needing to flirt with _demons_ to do so."

He smirked down into her livid face. "All right then, you can heal the next one." He nodded to the guards to let the next patient onto the stage, just as though the guardians of the Chantry weren't taking up most of it.

Ser Bryant took one look at where the crowd surged at the base of the steps and shook his head, moving forward. "No! You can't."

Grand Cleric Leanna turned her pinched face to him. "At least now you see sense; not that it will save you from punishment. I'll see you posted to the worst place in Thedas for this dereliction of du-" Her words were cut off by the bodies that pushed and shoved against her.

The cordon had broken and the crowd were onstage.

_-oOo-_

Up until this point Anders had been finding the whole situation hilarious. An opportunity to wind up the Grand Cleric didn't come his way every day of the week. He itched to do worse to her than mock, but even he wasn't daft enough to think it a good idea.

Then, suddenly, there were people everywhere, screaming and shouting. The four Templars formed up around the Grand Cleric, protecting her from the surging crowd. Ser Bryant was by his side, shouting at him to withdraw, his Templar shield raised as a shelter. Anders shook his head, preparing a spell; mass paralysis or sleep would get things under control, he just hoped the Templars wouldn't see it as a reason to smite him on his arse.

Right on the verge of stepping into the Fade, of grasping the power he needed, he felt something pressed into his hand and his arm was enveloped in a blinding flash.

In the same moment, the Grand Cleric crumpled to the floor, the front of her robes smoking and charred.

All hell broke loose.

_-oOo-_

"No, _no_, I didn't do it." Anders was shaking his head vehemently, shock written all over his face.

Ser Bryant saw the flash envelop Anders' hand in the moment when the Grand Cleric was hit, but was certain he hadn't accessed the Fade. _Someone_ had, but he'd been working with Anders for days, he _knew_ how the Warden's magic felt.

The combined smites of the Grand Cleric's guard knocked Anders off his feet, even rocking Ser Bryant on his heels for a moment. He set his teeth and planted himself before the prone mage.

"_It wasn't him_!" It was like screaming into the wind, his words only heard a few feet before him, battling against the cacophony. People milled everywhere; whoever the killer was, he or she could too easily escape in this mess. "And you idiots have just incapacitated the one person who might have been able to save her!"

The Templars were obviously torn between wishing to protect the prone body of the Chantry's leader and wanting to cut down the man they saw as the perpetrator. Two of them, helms hiding their expressions, menaced Ser Bryant, attempting to get past him to reach their prey. None of the guards were near enough to assist. When a third Templar, bareheaded and blond, turned his attention towards them also, Ser Bryant resigned himself to failure and probably death; there was no way he could withstand three of his brethren alone.

"He's right." The blond boy formed up beside Ser Bryant; behind them he could hear Anders scrambling to his feet. "You're right, Ser, it wasn't the Warden. I was stood right beside him."

It was two against three now, with one of the three still hovering over the prone woman, holding his shield to ward off the diminishing crush. People were fleeing, and it looked like a good plan to Ser Bryant. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two men of the King's Own working their way towards where their little drama was playing out. "Good lad. Help me get him out of here and back to the palace."

_-oOo-_

The gloomy ringing of the bells in Denerim Cathedral drifted over the entire city, even filtering faintly into Alistair's sitting room, where a disconsolate Anders and a grim Ser Bryant made their report to the King. What had been intended as a harmless bit of propaganda, an opportunity to garner some last-minute support by demonstrating how mages could help people, had blown up in their faces, literally.

"Someone set me up, Alistair." Anders opened his hand to show the soot smeared over it. "They shoved some kind of flare in my hand, so it would look like I'd cast a spell. I still don't know whether she died from a spell or a trap, but whatever it was it _looked_ like a spell and that's all that matters, right?" His voice and expression were bitter, disillusioned.

"It was a spell." Ser Bryant seemed adamant, his face set and hard. "I felt the Fade accessed but it wasn't close by; I think the spell was cast further back, in the crowd. It was clumsy, nothing like the Warden's skill at all."

"I don't get it." Alistair rubbed his hand through his hair, bewildered. "How could someone set this up? How could they know that the Grand Cleric would turn up personally? And that the stage would get mobbed?"

"It's simple enough to orchestrate such things." Leliana's usually placid face was angry. "If I had been there - I _should_ have been there - then I could have prevented this, turned the crowd."

"It's not your fault, Lels; I _knew_ I should have made them wait for their blighted wedding. Having it the day before the Landsmeet was crazy." Alistair flung himself back in his chair, despairing. "And now it'll be all over the city that Anders killed Loopy Leanna. I'll be lucky to hold the votes I've got, let alone garner any more. Maker, we're going to lose tomorrow, aren't we?" His fingers dug hard into the arm of the chair. "After everything we've done, everything we've been through."

She shook her head and stood, brisk and determined. "I'll get to work; see what I can achieve tonight. Zevran too, even if it _is_ his wedding night, I'll go get him, put him to work. If there are assassins in town, perhaps he can find them, while I try to undo some of this damage."

"I have a Templar downstairs, Sire, Ser Kayden, a member of the Grand Cleric's personal guard. He is willing to swear before the Landsmeet that Warden Anders did not cast that spell."

Alistair nodded to Ser Bryant. "Well, that's something at least. Keep him safe; I don't want any more 'accidents' before tomorrow." He rubbed his face wearily. "I hope the Maker is on our side at the Landsmeet. We're going to need all the help we can get."

_-oOo-_

Slow, heavy bells rang constantly, a dirge for the dead. Brother Guido sat at his desk in the Chantry, his hands clasped before him. On the desk was a single sheet of parchment; it bore no words, merely a wax seal, heavy and black, the stylized spread wings of a bird. _Le ali del corvo, _the wings of the Crow. His contract was fulfilled, exactly to specification. Even now, those nobles loyal to the Chantry would be visiting with those whose votes may be swayed, tutting and shaking their heads over such a shocking occurrence; the death of the Grand Cleric at the hands of a mage. The vote would be close - too many nobles had a vested interest in the King's proposal for it to be anything else – but, if his calculations were correct, the proposal would fall.

He stood, moving to where a good fire crackled in the hearth, and flung in the parchment, watching the wax seal flare up in the heat.

_-oOo-_


	59. Chapter 59

_-oOo-_

Maddy watched, resignedly, as Alistair mooched nervously around their sitting-room. He'd tripped over Claudia three times already, and now the little cat was curled up on the sofa beside her mistress, giving the King dirty looks.

"More tea, _mon mari_?"

"No, I mean yes, er…" Alistair stopped fiddling with their toy soldiers and looked up at her with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I'm distracted. Maker, Maddy, it's the Landsmeet in a few hours. What if we lose? Eamon's right, I'll never have the respect of the nobles again if this proposal falls on its face."

"We are not going to lose." Maddy wished she was certain of that, but nevertheless kept her voice confident. "You are right to do this, Alistair. Too much harm has been done here by the Chantry, and it would not surprise me at all if the Divine was behind the whole thing. You will take better care of them; not just the mages, but the Templars, too."

"I hope so." He set down the figurine. "I want them to work together, Maddy. I want them to actually help people, rather than just lock themselves away and spend their lives glaring at each other. Mages can't be allowed to run wild, they're too dangerous. I want training and tests, much more stringent than the Harrowing; so that we can know which mages are fit to work in the community. I want Templars and mages trained together, so they think as a team rather than as opponents. I want the new Templars to be taught without lyrium. I know the older ones will always have to use it, but I don't want more people addicted."

"And you shall have all of this." She'd heard this speech several times before, but showed no signs of impatience. Alistair's Templar-training haunted him almost as much as the situation in the Circle. "All we must do is get through today." She climbed out of the sofa, clumsily. There were still two months to go before her confinement, but the twins already began to lie heavy on her tiny frame. "Come, _mon amour_," Maddy kissed Alistair on the nose, pulling his face down to where she could reach it. "It's time to dress and prepare."

_-oOo-_

"Arl Teagan." It was the fifth time in the last hour that Teagan had been so accosted, with a hand on his sleeve and a barely polite greeting. The Landsmeet chamber was starting to fill up and everyone was eager to hear about the same thing.

"Teyrn Bryland, I hope you are well." Teagan took a half step away, forcing the Teyrn to release him. "Is the Teyrna in good health?"

"Yes, of course." The Teyrn's response was cursory. "Teagan, that shocking business yesterday… is it true that Warden Anders murdered the Grand Cleric in cold blood?"

"Absolutely not." After so many repetitions the words were becoming mechanical and Teagan had to force some conviction into them. "There are witnesses, Chantry witnesses, who are willing to state on oath that it is not so."

Bryland chewed his lip, clearly unconvinced. "It's a terrible thing to happen, and could bring the wrath of the Chantry down upon us. Teagan, why wasn't the Landsmeet cancelled? Surely the King doesn't intend to go ahead with this mad plan?"

"The proposed reforms are necessary, Your Grace. The untimely death of Grand Cleric Leanna, regrettable though it was, doesn't alter that."

"It seems downright disrespectful to me, under the circumstances, and dangerous to upset the Chantry even more. If King Alistair wants my vote, he's going to have to work blighted hard for it, that's all I can say."

Teagan bit back a sigh. He'd heard that too many times today, also. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I see my brother beckoning me." He bowed and departed, before things could get any worse. There was no point remonstrating; he'd tried that with the first three nobles, to no avail. The numbers were so close and hope was dwindling that the proposal would achieve the two-thirds majority it required.

For the hundredth time, Teagan rolled the numbers through his mind. The north coast was solid, too interested in the prosperity offered by the lyrium trade to care much about the potential reactions of the Chantry. The south was predominantly in the Chantry's pocket, jealous of the shipping that the busy north coast would receive, and lacking the farmland that would warm them to the Queen and King. The Central Bannorn was split, some hanging onto the hope that Maddy's gift could provide for them, but others too afraid of the Chantry to stick their heads over the parapet. Yesterday's debacle had set everyone on edge, and all over the room nobles were arguing, fractious and discontented.

Nerves fluttered in Teagan's stomach as he looked around the room. Not everyone was here yet. The delegation from the Chantry had not yet arrived, and Alistair had said that he was damned if he was appearing until they did. No dramatic last minute entrance for the Legate, he'd said, and Leliana had added her approval.

_-oOo-_

Leliana flitted around the room like a hostess at a tea-party, smiling and chatting with one little knot of people before ducking gracefully out and repeating the process with another. She did her best to ignore the grey eyes that followed her progress, to concentrate on the task at hand. She skilfully separated Bann Kester of Lothering from Bann Coerlic, who was making a spirited, if somewhat querulous, attempt to sway his vote. Taking the fat red-cheeked little Bann's arm, she guided him to a little knot of Central Bannorn nobles, who wanted to hear first-hand what the Queen could achieve for them. Bann Kester, delighted to be the centre of attention, was happy to oblige them, and Leliana was able to move on.

The sense of being watched had faded, and when she sneaked a glance, Nathaniel was in conversation, having been bagged by a somewhat incensed-looking Alfstanna. Shipping business, Leliana ascertained, by dint of a little lip-reading, and dismissed it for the moment. Only one thing mattered today.

There was a bustle from those nearest the door, and a murmur of noise arose from that side of the room. A shift in the crowd of velvet and silk-clad bodies showed her the reason, and she turned to give the nod to the guard at the opposite entrance. The Chantry delegation had arrived, and the sooner Alistair now appeared the less time the Legate would have to spread more dissent.

_-oOo-_

Brother Guido had deliberately timed his entry, to ensure that all the other nobles were present when he arrived. He wanted them to see the empty space at his side, where the Grand Cleric would usually walk. The Templars who accompanied him had been given explicit instructions to assume a formation that drew attention to the ghastly, glaring fact that the Grand Cleric was dead. Murdered by a foul apostate.

Every eye turned to watch the entry of the Chantry delegation, and the Legate set a measured place, allowing everyone to look their fill. Or at least that was the plan, foiled mere moments after his entry by a blare of trumpets, insistently calling the Landsmeet to take their places. Instead of a dignified entrance under the eye of the Landsmeet, the Legate was forced to step briskly to reach his assigned position before a second cascade of notes heralded the arrival of the King and Queen. Every noble dropped into a bow or curtsey as King Alistair and Queen Madeleina entered from the opposite doors. The ruling monarchs of Ferelden walked arm in arm to the raised dais - backed by an enormous banner displaying a pair of rampant mabari supporting a golden crown - and seated themselves upon the twin thrones. King Alistair nodded to his Chamberlain, who stepped forward with a scroll bearing details of the day's business.

The Landsmeet had begun.

_-oOo-_

Never before had the minor business of the Landsmeet been declared and voted on so quickly and efficiently. The usual extensive brangling over minor points of law was eschewed in favour of silent, grim-faced waiting. Watching from the side, it occurred to Zevran that anyone with a small political axe to grind should most definitely have aired it today, assured of it slipping through with the minimum of attention. Everyone's attention was firmly focussed on the main event.

The silence when the Chamberlain unrolled the final scroll was absolute.

"Nobles sers of the Landsmeet, I put before you a proposal from the Crown." Bertram cleared his throat and continued. "Due to recent outrages perpetrated by the Chantry in this, our land of Ferelden, I, King Alistair Theirin, do propose to place the Ferelden Chantry under the protection of the Crown, appointing a Grand Cleric from among our devout sisters and ensuring that no longer are we subject to the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux."

Now, for the first time there were murmurs, as the nobles discussed the wording. It had taken the whole group of them several hours last night to agree it, with quite a lot of heated discussion. Zevran was particularly pleased with '_the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux'_, devised by himself and Leliana in order to avoid directly calling the Divine corrupt, while taking a subtle swipe at how Orlesian the Chantry was.

Bertram cleared his throat again and called for order. "His Majesty has elected to bring forward his reasons for this proposal in person. Pray silence for the King."

_-oOo-_

The only time Alistair could remember being this nervous was the day he'd walked into Maddy's state apartment at the Imperial palace in Val Royeaux and proposed. Cold sweat coated his hands and it was an effort not to constantly wipe them on his velvet breeches. He was thankful that, at this Landsmeet at least, he was not obliged to wear armour.

He could see the Chantry delegation on the right hand balcony, the Legate in his sun robes looking down impassively, flanked by Templars. The left balcony held the highest ranked nobility; Teyrns and Arls. The main floor was a mass of bodies, Banns from every part of Ferelden, all looking up at him, awaiting a speech that would make or break his rule.

He drew a breath, praying desperately not to mess this up.

"Six months ago I began to receive reports of Chantry abuses. I have no doubt that most of you have heard similar, or even seen the evidence with your own eyes. Templars exceeding their powers, brutal in their pursuit of even the whiff, or rumour, of magic. Children dragged along on the end of a rope like animals, hurt and terrified, denied even basic care." There were a few murmurs from the floor; it seemed the picture struck a chord.

"I attempted to negotiate with the Grand Cleric, but to no avail. The Crown does not understand the will of Andraste, she told me, and has no power over the actions of the Chantry, and she proceeded to arrange a public burning of mages, so-called maleficarum and abominations, in our capital city." Alistair stopped a moment, looking around, his face grim. "I have fought both many times, unlike many who claim to understand them. I stood beside the Hero and fought against Uldred and the abomination he became, and I can assure you of this: if they had been abominations, they would not have stood passive against that stake and roasted. It was innocent mages who burned alive that day, their hands chopped off at the wrist and their tongues torn from their mouths."

It was a powerful picture and held the room in a spell. You could have heard a pin drop.

"I wrote to the Divine herself, in Val Royeaux, requesting that she appoint a Grand Cleric more in line with the needs and aspirations of the Ferelden people. A copy of that letter lies in the archives here in the palace, should any of you wish to see it. Months passed and I receive no response of any kind; it seems that either the behaviour of Grand Cleric Leanna was acceptable to the Divine's office, or she simply did not care enough about our plight to take action."

There were a few hisses and more murmuring. Some of the faces that turned up to where the Legate stood, his eyes fixed on the King's face, seemed troubled, while others were angry.

"It is a fact, not known to many, that all Templars are addicted to lyrium. The Chantry claims that this is necessary so that they may use their abilities against mages." Alistair allowed a small smile to offset the grimness of his expression. "If you have any doubts about the truth of that claim, let me know and I'll be happy to smite you later, or you can trust my word: lyrium is not necessary." There was a ripple of… something, a reaction he couldn't assess, not now when so much more needed to be said. Leliana and Zevran, watching carefully, could be relied upon for that.

"When it was brought to my attention that the lyrium the Templars have been taking in recent times contained the poison deathroot, their aberrant behaviour began to make sense. Four Templars even attacked myself and my Queen in the Brecilian Forest, crazed with bloodlust." One of the servants, at his nod, brought up a salver, upon which stood a stoppered and wax-sealed bottle. "Here is my evidence, lying under the seal of the Chantry. Poisoned lyrium, handed out to those Templars in the field, and in the Circle Tower, while those in other postings received ordinary lyrium. A deliberate and calculated attempt to ensure that mages received no quarter at the hands of those who were sworn to protect them."

There was an uproar at that, a surge of voices, shouting questions, refutations, arguments. Alistair had to wait until the Chamberlain called the Landsmeet to order before he could continue.

"There are those who have openly wondered why I negotiated with King Bhelen of Orzammar for the lyrium trade, removing it from Chantry control. There are those who have suggested that doing so puts Ferelden at terrible risk. Now you may understand my actions, and why not doing so would have put us at far greater risk. The dwarves of Orzammar will not tolerate pollution of lyrium, they venerate it too greatly to do so. Their ancient contract with the Chantry was rendered null and void by this heinous deed. The lyrium trade was up for grabs; I was fortunate to be on the spot, to be able to prevent in one move, a scrabble for power that would have rocked Thedas."

That had them gripped. Every face was thoughtful and their concerns were obvious. If Orlais, their huge and powerful neighbour, had been able to seize control of the lyrium trade, it would have been a disaster for Ferelden.

"It was while in Orzammar that I discovered another abuse of Chantry power." Alistair glanced up at the Legate's frozen face and, although he maintained his sober-face, inside he grinned. _Does he really think I'll mention their slaves?_ "In Orzammar I discovered mages, refugees who had fled from the Circle Tower, who were able to give me some much-needed news of what has been occurring there. The deathroot-crazed Templars hold our bastion of magic in an iron fist, the First Enchanter missing, presumed dead or tranquil, and every mage in fear of the same.

"Is this what we expect from the Chantry? Our brother and sons who join the Templar ranks addicted to drugs that slowly destroy their minds? Our sisters and daughters who show signs of magic dragged on the end of a rope, when barely old enough to walk, like animals or slaves? How does this make us any different than Tevinter, if the only distinction is _who_ is drugged, _who_ is enslaved? Do you, do _any of you_, truly believe that this is the message preached by Andraste?"

There were murmurings all over the room now, suppressed only by the shushing of those wishing to hear the rest.

"The Chantry has failed us. And yet I, just as you, believe firmly in the true principles of the Chant. Therefore I say to you that it is time for us to take responsibility for upholding Andraste's Law, just as we, who hold noble rank, take responsibility for upholding the law of our land of Ferelden. I consider that I have a duty to do so, a duty to protect _all_ of my subjects: noble, commoner, mage and Templar. I can only do this by offering myself as Protector of the Chantry of Ferelden, by myself ensuring that its leadership is righteous and true to its teachings. I ask that you allow me, and my heirs in perpetuity, to pick up this burden."

Energy fizzed in Alistair's veins, his body's response to stress and public speaking. As the last words rang out he felt as if he could run out, right now, and put the world to rights. Just so had he felt before the Battle of Denerim, speaking to the army from his impromptu podium. It felt wrong to step back, to retake his seat on the ornate throne. He should be leading a charge with sword raised, a battle cry on his lips.

But there was no such clear-cut enemy, just a sudden buzz of conversation and the inevitable sight of the Chantry banner being raised, the sun symbol picked out in silk and gold thread. Unsurprisingly, the Legate wished to respond.

_-oOo-_

"The Landsmeet recognises the Chantry delegation. You may speak."

At the King's words, Brother Guido stepped forward, gripping the smooth wood of the balcony on which he stood.

"It is with sorrow that I hear King Alistair put forward such a disruptive proposal, and with bewilderment that I hear his reasons for doing so. He says that the Divine does not care for your concerns; and yet here I stand. He tells of an attack upon his person, and I say to you that I have already turned the perpetrators over to the King's Justice."

He paused, taking a breath, assessing the mood of the gathered nobles. The trick here would be to refute what was clearly refutable and ignore what was not. They would hear the positive, and only the most intelligent would spot the gaps. He didn't need to convince them all, anything above one-third of the vote was sufficient.

"He says that the mages of the Circle Tower have been ill-treated. I was as aghast as you to hear such a thing, and upon my arrival I assured King Alistair that _any_ Chantry personnel with whom he took issue, Templar or priest, would be removed from their positions and replaced with those more acceptable to him."

There it was, the mood of the room beginning to swing in his favour, nobles looking at each other and wondering why, after such a thing, the proposal could still be needed. The Divine Legate allowed them a small smile before permitting grief to gather in his face.

"He also speaks of his duty to protect all of his subjects. Why then does Grand Cleric Leanna lie dead, struck down by King Alistair's own Court mage? Why does that man," he pointed to where Anders stood, allowing his finger to shake with apparent emotion, "not lie under guard in Fort Drakon?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Denerim banner raised in response to his question. That would be Eamon, the King's most subtle counsellor, ready to query his words. Brother Guido pressed on. "The Chantry is not your enemy, nobles of Ferelden. We have been painted very black, no? I say to you that the Divine wishes to meet you halfway in this matter, that she sees with sorrow the outrages perpetrated here and would see reparation done. It is not my wish to speak ill of the dead, but much of what has occurred may be laid at the door of your former Grand Cleric, and if she lived today I would see her answer for those actions. Ask yourselves why she does not. Ask yourselves what may lie behind this monstrous proposal. Vote with your minds and your hearts, my lords, and may Andraste guide you to the correct conclusion."

_-oOo-_

As the last words rang out, they were met with silence, the nobility for once briefly quenched by the strength of the Legate's rhetoric. _Maker, curse him_, thought Alistair, nodding to Eamon.

"We recognise the Arl of Denerim."

"There are two points I would like to make, if the Landsmeet permits. One is that the Chantry has not called for the arrest of Warden Anders. This I would find very strange, were it not for my second point." Eamon paused, allowing the Landsmeet a moment to become curious. Alistair gripped the arms of his throne, watching their intent faces. "King Alistair and I interviewed yesterday evening two Templars in good standing, one of whom was a member of Grand Cleric Leanna's personal guard. They both swore to me, by the Maker and Sacred Andraste, that Warden Anders did not access the Fade when Grand Cleric Leanna was hit by that spell."

There were murmurs from the crowd, which Eamon allowed to swell and drop before continuing. Alistair hid a grin; working the room was one of Eamon's specialities.

"Both Templars agree that the spell was cast further back, in the crowd of people milling around at the base of the stage. Furthermore, they are both willing to attest that Warden Anders had powder burns on his hands, suggesting that a flash bomb had gone off there, making it appear as though he had cast the spell.

"It is, of course, impossible to know who set him up for this particular fall. The perpetrators fled in the chaos that inevitably erupted. I do, however, find myself asking exactly why the Chantry did not turn up in force yesterday evening to demand the arrest, and execution, of the person they believed to have murdered their leader."

At that, the Landsmeet burst into agitated and vociferous noise, outraged at Eamon's suggestion. Alistair watched for the ones who weren't outraged, the ones who turned thoughtful eyes up to where the Legate stood, impassive. There were quite a few of them. Some of them weren't strong supporters of the Crown. The tide was turning back again. _Maker, it's close. Every word makes a difference_.

_-oOo-_

There weren't as many questions as one would have expected. The fact that the Legate had neatly dumped all blame on a dead woman meant that there was little point in the nobles pursuing the question of poisoned lyrium, or tranquil mages. _Which was, of course, the point of her death_, thought Eamon, watching them all. _He's a clever opponent; if Leanna had been here, forced to squirm under scrutiny, then our case would have been so much stronger_.

If the Legate's grasp on the proceedings was in any doubt, then it was proven when he called for a recess before the vote. Too much of the room was in the King's corner right now, he needed time to sway a little more support. Eamon couldn't help but admire him for his ability.

Alistair had no choice, of course, but to acquiesce. Forcing a vote in the teeth of that request could only instil more doubt in people's minds.

On the verge of heading for the stairs leading down from the balcony, Eamon halted, brought to a halt by a hail from behind him.

"Eamon," Teyrn Fergus, his brown hair falling in his eyes as always, was holding out his hand, "do you have a moment?"

He didn't - too many people down on the floor needed to be spoken to - but Highever was a major part of their support, bringing many Banns in his wake. He grasped the Teyrn's hand warmly. "Of course, Fergus, what can I do for you?"

"Your speech… I have to confess, until you spoke, I was wondering whether you were still in support of the King."

"What?" The question was unexpected. "I'm still his Chancellor; of course he has my support." _Mainly because I haven't been able to sway him from this foolish scheme_. "Whatever makes you think otherwise?"

Fergus looked uncomfortable. "Eamon, it's not my intention to cause trouble, but you should know… Isolde came to see me yesterday, trying to convince me to support the Chantry against this proposal."

_Isolde_. "I see." Certain things became clear all at once. Spiteful comments against Alistair that he'd put down to her long-standing jealousy. The amount of time she spent out at lunches or dinners recently; he'd thought she was just taking advantage of their new city location to make more friends. "I- Thank you for telling me this, Fergus. I'm sorry you were put in such a position."

_Stupid, stupid woman_. Maker, how he loved her, but by all that was holy, how difficult she made it. _I should never have taken Denerim, never have moved her here. Better to have kept her in Redcliffe, where she can do less damage._

_-oOo-_

Leliana slipped out of the room as soon as recess was called, returning with the two Templars, Sers Bryant and Kayden. Many of the nobles would wish to hear their testimony first-hand; others might not_ want_ to, but should, as their vote was being too easily swayed by the death of the Grand Cleric. With the two of them in tow, she began a circuit of the room, ensuring everyone had the opportunity to speak to them.

As she did so, she allowed her eyes to flick around, keeping tabs on everything else which was happening. Anders was on the dais, remaining carefully close to Alistair and Maddy's thrones. They were risking no 'accidents' today, no face-offs between the volatile mage and the crafty Legate. Several nobles were clustered before the dais, asking their monarch for more information. Passing by that part of the room, she heard reference to '_land_' and '_mage_'. The inevitable questions had come up then, about the status of Maddy's abilities. Thank the Maker there were a dozen or more Templars, stationed in various towns, who could attest that she did not access the Fade.

Zevran was keeping to the shadows, his primary role today to be on standby in case of any violent responses. Philippe was nowhere to be seen; she assumed that Zevran had him stashed somewhere safe. The Queen's brother was still too shy of his ruined face to be comfortable in such a crowd, and his safety too much of a distraction for Zev.

Cedric was in a cluster of Banns, receiving congratulations both real and spurious on his ascension to lands and title, and looking rather uncomfortable. He still wore the armour of the King's Own, and no doubt wished he was still on duty. Beside Cedric stood his father, Bann Gerant, looking proud and pleased. To have a younger son receive such an honour was a fantastic thing for their family. Leliana winked at Ced as she passed, and saw him grin in return, the cloud lifting slightly.

Teagan, looking harassed, and Eamon, as smooth and unruffled as ever, were working the room. It was impossible to know exactly how the vote would go; the Bannorn held so many little nobles, each with their own parcel of land, and it was they who were swaying back and forth between King and Chantry.

The Legate, with a pair of Templars to either side of him, was also moving around the room with a stately tread, making himself available to those who wished it. Fragments of conversation she caught, either in passing or from lip-reading, suggested that he was sticking to the line he had drawn: the fault lay with the Grand Cleric, and the Divine was willing to correct everything. It was a potent message for people who didn't want to risk trouble with the powerful Chantry, and was certain to influence many votes.

A blare of trumpets preceded the Chamberlain's voice. "The Landsmeet is called to order. My lords, please take your places."

_-oOo-_

There was no resume of the facts, no closing speeches. Everyone who needed to be heard had spoken, and everyone had been given the opportunity to ask their questions informally.

It was time to vote.

Alistair could feel the sweat cold on his upper lip, and he gripped the arms of his throne to stop his hands from shaking. As soon as the nobles had all taken their places, he nodded to Bertram, indicating that the vote could commence. On the balcony the Legate was as calm and collected as ever. _Not so much riding on this for him_, thought Alistair. _At worst, he gets to tell the Divine he failed and face her displeasure. If I fail, it'll affect my whole reign._

Beside him, on the adjacent throne, Maddy sat as upright as was possible, given her swollen belly. One blessing was that the Legate had elected not to bring her status into this debate. Whatever arguments may be raging between the common people, at least his wife wasn't being held up for scrutiny before the Landsmeet. Alistair assumed that the Legate had looked into what had actually occurred, and decided that there was insufficient basis on which to argue about her magics. The fact that the Crown had publicly denied any divinity would also have helped.

"Noble sers," Bertram's trained voice rang out through the Landsmeet chamber, "you are called upon to vote on the proposal put forward by the Crown." He unrolled the scroll and read out the original proposal. "Due to recent outrages perpetrated by the Chantry in this, our land of Ferelden, I, King Alistair Theirin, do propose to place the Ferelden Chantry under the protection of the Crown, appointing a Grand Cleric from among our devout sisters and ensuring that no longer are we subject to the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux." He furled the scroll and looked up into a sea of tense, expectant faces. "All those in favour raise the banners of their House."

All over the room there was the whirr of ratchets, as the locking mechanisms on the standing banners released, unfurling them towards the ceiling. Redcliffe was first up, with Denerim, Amaranthine, West Hill and Highever close behind. The sight of the four Arls and the Teyrn pledging their support so freely caused a whole heap of Banns to follow suit, demonstrating their loyalty to their overlords. Gwaren's banner remained stubbornly furled and most of the south followed suit, with only Lothering and those banns adjacent raising their banners.

Alistair's eyes flicked anxiously over the raised banners. He held a large chunk of the Central Bannorn, all fearful that if they didn't vote in his favour, the Queen would not give them her time in order to resurrect their fortunes. The north-east coast was solid, only the far north-west, under Bann Alfstanna, holding for the Chantry. Two-thirds he needed, and it was looking close, too close. He could see the Chamberlain taking careful count, noting in the records who had voted how. When the count was done, Bertram looked up and gave his King a tiny shake of the head.

Alistair felt like he'd been punched in the gut. They'd lost. After everything they'd done, they'd lost. Ferelden would suffer badly for this. Maker knew what kind of Grand Cleric would be inflicted upon them now. He would have no recourse to protect the remaining mages in the Circle tower. And, worst of all, the Landsmeet would lose faith in their King, making it virtually impossible for him to effect any changes during the remainder of his reign.

The Chamberlain stepped forward, speaking into deadly silence. "The proposal is tied, sixteen votes to eight-"

A cheerful voice, Cedric's voice, cut in from the very back of the room, where Rainesfere's banner was already raised. "Just one second, we're having problems back here." The whole room turned as one, to where the newly-instated Bann was struggling with a raw, new-looking banner stand.

He pulled out a dagger and bashed the stand with the pommel, where the shiny, new brass handle was stuck solid in roughly hewn pine. There was an audible click. "There, that should do it."

Before the combined gaze of the nobility, a banner was unfurled, bright and new. The fabric was linen, not fine silk, fresh and crisp, not showing the careful wear of ages. It bore no gold thread, and the embroidery was a little lumpy in places, seeming to have been sewn by many hands. The insignia upon it had never been seen before in the Landsmeet chamber: a tree, the branches widespread and the trunk painted in swirling colours.

The elves had voted.

_-oOo-_

At her post, to one side of Maddy's throne, Kallian shook sudden tears out of her eyes. She could see Valendrian's calm face, and Shianni's triumphant grin, under the banner of the Vhenadahl. She heard Maddy's breathless gasp as her side, as the implications sunk in, and heard the Queen murmur to her husband, "Alistair, we've won."

Anything other than that was lost in the cacophony that broke out, furious nobles demanding to know what on Thedas was going on, why the _knife-ears_ were voting. It took time for Bertram to re-instate order, and in the end it was Alistair who had to bellow for silence, battlefield-trained voice ringing out over the din. A clerk scuttled out of a side room, bearing a scroll, which he pushed into Bertram's hand before vanishing again. The Chamberlain cleared his throat.

"May I remind those present of the proceedings of the previous Landsmeet." He unrolled the scroll. "The proposal for the refurbishment of the Alienages was put before the Landsmeet, with the following addendum: '_that the Crown __subsidise a percentage of the costs of improvement to all the alienages, directly from the Queen's dowry, on the condition that the Hahren of the Denerim alienage receive a seat on the Landsmeet, representing the interests of all the alienages.'_ This proposal was passed and now forms a part of Ferelden law."

There was a stunned silence. It seemed that very few had remembered this to be the case. The glowering faces up in the Chantry box certainly suggested that the Legate had not known. The other proposals put forward today had all affected only the Central Bannorn, where there were no Alienages, so the elves had thus far abstained from voting.

The whole thing appeared to have shocked the Landsmeet to its core, and Kallian was seriously struggling to keep the grin off her face.

"The votes have now been counted." The Chamberlain's voice roused them all from their stupor. "The Crown's proposal is passed with seventeen votes."

Kallian saw Maddy reach out a hand to squeeze Alistair's. It was over. They'd won.

_-oOo-_

**_AN: There we have it, the Landsmeet finale of the Trouble and Strife plot arc. There will be at least two Epilogues, one for short term tie-ups and one for longer impacts, which I'm still in the process of writing. Hopefully they will be issued to schedule, but they are proving a little difficult to write._**

**_I will say it again when the final chapter goes up, but I wanted to say it now. Thank you for following this, thank you for favouriting and most of all, from the bottom of my heart, thank you to those kind people who have reviewed week upon week, confirming their interest and enjoyment. Without you, I would have given up months ago._**

**_If you've been silently reading and enjoying, please, please review ONCE. Just so I know what aspects brought you and what kept you interested. _**

**_Love n stuff_**

**_Karen_**

**_xx_**


	60. Epilogue: in the months that follow

**_AN: for once I'm issuing this chapter unbeta'd, as I didn't finish it early enough to submit it for its usual rigorous checks. Apologies if it is therefore a bit rough; I'll be sending it for beta and replacing the chapter as soon as possible, but thought it better to get *a* version out on time. This may also be a good time to mention my fantastic beta, bellaknoti, Grammar Fairy extraordinaire, who has been with me since about Chapter 15 or so. She's awesome and I love her. Karen xxx_**

_-oOo-_

Ser Bryant had to bang on the great doors of the Circle Tower many times before anyone came to open them, while Wynne huddled at his side, wrapped in her cloak against the biting wind off the lake. When they finally creaked open he saw the last thing he expected: a mage, a small dark-haired woman with a timid demeanour. She took only one look before averting her eyes from him, paying great attention instead to the stone flags on which they stood.

"Keili, child, where is everyone?" Wynne bustled into the Circle and stopped dead, looking around. Ser Bryant followed her, carefully closing the doors behind him. There was not a Templar in sight. It was as though the Avvar columns holding up the ceiling had wandered off on business of their own.

"Wynne?" The young woman seemed taken-aback at the sight of the elderly mage. "They left…. they all left, day before yesterday." The expression of relief on her face when she turned to him from the mage disturbed Ser Bryant. Mages did not usually look at Templars as though they were their one remaining hope of salvation. Not that she looked at him precisely. She turned towards him, addressed him, but her eyes remained on the floor.

"We've kept to the schedule, ser, enforced the rotas. Made sure everyone goes to prayers every three hours, starting at dawn." She swallowed, nervously. "It's been difficult; most of the priests left when the Templars did." She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes wide and earnest. "I'm glad you're here, ser. I was so afraid our curse would catch up with us, with no-one to protect us from it."

"Curse, child? What nonsense is this?" Wynne hustled the younger mage further in, scolding gently all the way. Ser Bryant followed, looking around at the changes since the last time he'd been here.

The apprentice quarters appeared much the same, the children perhaps more subdued than he remembered. There seemed to be a marked lack of older apprentices, few seemed to be in puberty.

The quarters given over to harrowed mages were sparsely populated, and those mages they encountered seemed disproportionately relieved to see his armoured bulk in their midst.

The library was deserted.

When they entered the senior mages quarters Wynne stopped dead. "Mercy me," she exclaimed, looking around.

The entire place had been refitted, the comfortable beds, the desks, armoires and dressing tables all removed. Bunk beds, much like those in the apprentice quarters were rowed up in every cubicle, each one neatly made and with all belongings stowed in a trunk at the end. Ser Bryant opened one, curious to see if it was even occupied, and saw mages robes in a familiar rusty red, neatly folded. Tranquil robes. There were no personal belongings at all, and no-one in the room. Just rows and rows of accommodation for Tranquil workers. He felt sick. The King and the Warden had warned them what they might find here but the reality…

Wynne's mouth was shut in a thin line. "Follow me," she snapped, setting off at a brisk pace, not looking to see if he obeyed.

The Tranquil quarters were everything they feared. All accommodations now removed, the entire floor had been converted into an enormous workshop. Tranquil mages sat in rows at long tables, crafting runes, inserting them into the staffs, swords and armour that lay in piles behind them awaiting attention. Others worked at smaller tables, crafting lamps, trinkets, knick-knacks. The air was thick with the sparkle of lyrium and Ser Bryant seized Wynne's arm to prevent her from entering.

"First Enchanter, you can't go in there." Her grief and fury were palpable, only long control preventing her magic from leaking out. The addition of lyrium to such a potent mixture of emotions…

She tried to pull away, to enter the room, her eyes travelling along the ranks of the Tranquil, but Ser Bryant retained his grip, refusing to permit it. Occasionally a small sad noise escaped her, as she saw the face of some colleague, but she appeared to be searching for one person in particular.

He was fairly certain he knew who.

She turned on her heel after a moment, blazing a trail to the Templar quarters, so that he had to stride out to keep up. Her face was set into a frown, her focus all in one direction. There was not a soul up here, the various rooms neat and tidy, stripped of personal possessions. An occasional sock, an old helm were all they saw, until a discarded letter on one of the dressing tables caught their eye.

_You are ordered to take up a fresh posting in Jader immediately_. There were more instructions, all written out in the neat script of a clerk and it was signed _Brother Guido, Divine Legate on behalf of Divine Beatrix III_. The date on it was the same day as the Landsmeet.

Wynne turned it over in her hands. "He must have had them written out and ready to be sent, just in case."

Ser Bryant nodded. "Efficient of him." He wondered if his own 'fresh posting' had been delivered to the Gwaren chantry. "I'll send word to every chantry and monastery to hold awaiting the King's orders. We should have done it before leaving Denerim really, but…"

"…but we needed to see what the situation was here." Wynne's voice was weary, the task ahead of them monumental. "I have to wonder how many clerics and Templars will leave Ferelden, accept their new orders." She straightened her shoulders. "First, though, I want to know whether Irving is still alive. Perhaps up in the Harrowing Chamber…"

In the end they did not need to go so far as that in order to find the former First Enchanter. They went first to the Knight Commander's quarters; _my quarters now_, thought Ser Bryant, not quite believing it. The files, rotas and suchlike there were intact; apparently Cullen had left for his own posting with no belief that his actions here must be hidden or erased.

It was beyond these, on the final corridor before the stairs to the Harrowing Chamber, that they found a closed door. Wynne hesitated a moment before grasping the door handle.

"Do you want me to go in ahead of you?"

"No." The shake of her head was emphatic and she gripped the door handle with new purpose. "No."

The door swung open under her hand, exposing what no doubt used to be a comfortable room. Now it was a mess, the bedding soiled and scorch marks on the furniture. A pile of what, at first glance, appeared to be firewood turned out to be a small chest, blown into splintered fragments by mighty magics.

"Oh, Irving." Wynne rushed to the bed, where an old man lay sprawled, unmoving, looking at the ceiling. His eyes were vacant, his hair and beard tangled. On his arm the purple of fresh bruises mingled with the yellow of old, suggesting that he'd been in more than one fight.

The former First Enchanter turned towards her, and Wynne made a soft sound, brushing the hair back off his forehead. He wore, not one brand of the Tranquil, but three, the lines overlapping. There was no recognition in his eyes, no awareness, nothing. Ser Bryant had never seen such a thing; Tranquil weren't like this, they were awake, aware, they knew the people around them.

"Oh, Irving, what did they do to you?" Wynne's voice broke, but her fingers were already moving over his bruises, looking for major damage. After a moment she relaxed, infinitesimally and turned to Ser Bryant. "Get him water, he's shockingly dehydrated. Those brutes must have abandoned him here when they left. Why would they do such a thing?"

As he went to do her bidding, returning to the Knight Commander's quarters to use the water rune he'd seen on the wall there, the thought crossed Ser Bryant's mind unbidden and unwanted, disgust at his brethren sharp and bitter in his throat. _Guilty secret_. The First Enchanter had been too strong for the Rite of Tranquillity, forcing the Knight Commander to try again, and yet again. No Templar would want that knowledge in public view. _I'm only surprised they didn't just quietly kill him, or ship him to Aeonar in secret_.

Ser Bryant filled a cup with fresh water and, before returning with it, closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the wall. The task here was monumental; the remaining mages were meek and terrified, of little use for the King's hopes and plans; there were no Templars for him to command, each one would have to be drawn from their dwindling numbers across Ferelden's chantries; a small army of mage children were currently in transit from Vigil's Keep, they must all be protected and trained with the alarmingly small resources available.

_Andraste grant me the strength I need to do my duty_.

He pushed himself away from the wall, and went to do his first and most immediate duty; tending to the needs of the ruined, mindless, former First Enchanter.

_-oOo-_

It was bitterly cold in the Frostback mountains at that time of year. This caravan was almost certainly the last to make it to Orzammar before spring, and the guards hurried to check them in, wishing to get the great doors closed again as quickly as possible. Cargos must be checked and temporary brands applied. Bribes exchanged hands in the customary fashion, ensuring that the checks were not quite as thorough as perhaps they could be. A couple of humans, furtive and scared, turned out to be apostate mages, choosing to accept King Bhelen's open invite to live and work in Orzammar, rather than accept King Alistair's amnesty and train in the Circle Tower.

Once the routine business was settled there was a peculiar visitor to deal with, a dwarven woman dripping jewellery, bejewelled chains adorning her scarred throat.

The guards conducted a hurried conversation in an undertone, huddled over the letter she'd handed them.

"So, do we ink her or not?"

"Says here she's Shayle of House Cadash, sent by King Alistair to see King Bhelen."

"Surfacer then, if the human king sent her. Lyrium trader, maybe. We ink her."

"You ignorant sodding nug-humper. There_ is_ no House Cadash. Doncha remember that big plaque the Shaper put up a couple of years back? Cadash was one of the Houses that gave their last descendant to Caridin to put on the anvil."

They regarded Shayle for a moment. She stood, motionless and apparently uninterested, blind eyes staring ahead."

"She's no golem."

The brighter of the two guards grunted and addressed Shayle. "Missus… er… Milady, we have to ink anyone coming from the surface. It's how things are done. I hope you don't have a problem with that."

She turned towards his voice, her whole body moving as one in a way that was quite disconcerting. Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I do not care about such things, but if the implement you use is sharp, you must be very careful. This body is extremely squishy." Her voice was hoarse, ruined, the vocal chords straining to produce the words.

"Er… right, right, it's just a paintbrush, see." He held it up for inspection and then realised what he was doing. "Not that you can see it, but… just hold still a minute."

There didn't seem to be any difficulty with that. She had the appearance of someone willing to hold still all night.

The procedure complete, he watched her trundle off, with her merchant companions. One of them, the last to pass, winked at him. "She's a card, right? Hundreds of years old, apparently. Knew Caradin personally, can you believe it? My bet is that Bhelen will declare her a Paragon."

They passed through the Hall of Heroes, and into the Commons. The guard was left looking after them, stroking his beard. "A Paragon, eh?" He murmured to himself, thoughtfully. "I wonder if she's fertile…" He'd be off duty in an hour, and Steward Bandalor owned him a favour. Might be worth seeing if he could sneak in the back of the Assembly, try to snag her quick before someone else did.

_-oOo-_

Evening sunlight spilled through the window of the _palazzo,_ lying warm and golden on the mosaic-tiled floor. Luciana brushed out her long dark hair with long languorous strokes. A maid had already brushed it once - the pins from the _principessa_'_s_ elaborate hairstyle were scattered on the dressing table – but Luciana liked to brush it again herself, enjoying the feel of the bristles sliding over her scalp.

The maid had been dismissed, leaving the _principessa_ to conduct her daily rituals and muse upon her day. Her nails must be polished back to perfection, the creamy flawlessness of her skin inspected, cleansed and cared for. She had so few weapons left at her disposal, and her beauty was still the most potent part of her armoury. In the wake of her brother's downfall it had cushioned her from her cousin's wrath; the man was a fool, but a fool who understood the value of having an attractive well-bred woman at his beck and call. Luciana had no real objection to falling in with his schemes – attending his dinner parties and applying her wiles to those whose influence he wished to woo – she had been offering the same services all her life, first for papa and then for her brother. It was the way of things.

In return he left her alone, allowed her to remain here in the _palazzo_ of her birth, left her to enjoy her entertainments and her many lovers.

She put down her nail file and used a buffing cloth to bring a glossy shine to the perfect ovals of her nails. The evening light moved, slanting across the thick buff parchment on her dressing table; a letter from Empress Celene stating, in strangely cold terms, that her presence in Orlais would not be required after all. The tone of it had made Luciana a little uneasy; did the Empress know that she had been behind the removal of her proposed betrothed? Orlesians could be so touchy; they did not understand the way of the world. Her _Corvi_ had not yet returned from that particular task; she would be glad to have her Crows at her side again; there were many pitfalls in Antivan politics, and she'd felt extremely exposed these last few months.

She picked up a pot of her favourite face cream, a thick concoction made with cucumbers, too strongly scented to be suitable for day wear. It was expensive, but the alchemist who prepared it for her swore that it would inhibit wrinkles better than any other and certainly her skin had been much improved since she began to use it, oils lost to the harsh Antivan sun replenished nightly by the rich cream.

Luciana applied in generously, covering her face in fragment replenishment and then lifted her chin and closed her eyes to smooth the pale green stuff down her throat. When she opened her eyes, two faces looked back at her from the mirror, her own – her eyes dark with fear – and that of an elf, his golden eyes hard and cold above the amused line of his mouth. A cold pinprick touched her throat, his dagger, and she swallowed carefully.

"Good evening, _Principessa_." His voice was smooth and melodious, his accent pure Antiva City. _Merciful Andraste, a Crow._ Her mind raced through those who could have sent him, seeking an out from this predicament. The _Corvi de Nobile_ could no more be bought off than their mercenary counterparts, but they could be reasoned with, could be persuaded to take a counter-offer back to their master.

She spoke carefully, mindful of the dagger at her throat. "Who-?"

"Who sent me?" His rich chuckle might have been appealing at any other time. "Well now, that is a fair question. I think it truest to say that I sent myself. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Zevran." He hesitated and then chuckled again. "It would no longer be fair to introduce myself as a Crow. I left that fraternity quite some time ago."

_Zevran, Zevran_… she knew the name, she was sure of it, had heard it sometime recently. A former Crow, but there was no such thing apart from-

"You! They say you fought the Blight, the Archdemon!" She stared at him, bewildered. "I don't understand, what can you possibly want with me?" She moistened her lips, taking a desperate throw. If he was not of the _Corvi_, then perhaps… "You have taken a private contract on me? Name your price, I shall meet it."

The smile vanished. The expression that met hers in the mirror plumbed the depths of cold rage and her heart skipped a beat. She would not be able to buy her way out of this, nor offer the smiles that were her primary coin.

"There is only one price you may pay to me_, Principessa_, in exchange for your continued existence. In fact, you are already doing so." There was no warmth in his tone now, no amusement. "The cream you have so generously smeared upon your skin is a special preparation, rather more special than you are accustomed to. It seems likely that already you feel a tingling on your face and throat, and also on your hands, as you used them to apply it." He shrugged. "A necessary addition, but you have my permission to wipe them, if you wish. Your face, though… ah, that is another matter. We shall stay here together for a while, a few hours at least. After a time, you will experience a great deal of pain." Now that he mentioned it, there was a slight tingling in her cheeks and neck. She opened her mouth to say something, anything to bring this to a halt.

He produced a wad of cloth and stuffed it in her mouth, muffling the first panicked protests. "I apologise for such crudity, but I cannot have your screams drawing attention, you understand." The smile returned, the generous mouth curving in the mirror. Luciana saw her own eyes wide and terrified above the crude gag. It was difficult to be sure, but she thought a trace of redness was beginning to show in her creamy skin. She wiped her hands frantically on her dressing robe, trying to halt the tingle that was beginning there, also.

"I trust you are comfortable, _Principessa_? It is going to be a long night, I fear."

_-oOo-_

"Here, drink this." Leliana's soft voice cut through the fog in Alistair's mind and he took the cup of hot tea from her gratefully. Despite the blazing fire in his sitting room, he was chilled, having gone too long without sleep. Philippe dozed fitfully in a chair, while Zevran perched on the windowsill, knees against his chest, tense as a wire, staring out into darkness. The remains of a largely ignored meal were scattered on the table, the third to have been delivered by anxious servants during their vigil.

Muffled sounds emerging from Maddy's bedchamber - only ever used as a dressing room until this night - cut through Alistair like a knife and he put the cup on the table, returning to restless pacing. "Maker, how much longer? Surely she can't go on like this."

"It will be dawn soon." Zevran was the only one of them not to sound drawn and weary, his voice and posture as alert as ever. "The sun rises earlier now, yes? Perhaps _Sacro Andraste_ will deliver them all with the light." He shrugged. "It is often so; the elderly die at dawn, and babies are born then, also."

Alistair rubbed his hands over his face. "Perhaps if I'd put my foot down, made her come home from the Bannorn earlier…"

"Hush, Alistair." Leliana folded him in a comforting hug. "You know she wouldn't have listened, there was so much work to be done. Even now, only half of the spring planting can go ahead. Anyway, I am sure that it will not have hurt her. Anders stayed with her, she was well cared for." She stroked his hair, and he allowed his shoulders to drop, comforted against his better judgement. "She will be fine, Alistair, I am sure of it."

Even knowing how Leliana used words and tone to convince people of things that she did not necessarily believe, he was still drawn in by the power of her statement. Maddy would be alright. The babies would be alright.

A scream from behind the closed door of her room ripped away the comforting fiction. He was heading for the door before his brain began to catch up to his feet.

"Alistair, wait-" Leliana tried to insert her body between him and the door and he brushed her aside.

"That was my name! She screamed my _name_."

"It doesn't mean what you think, Alistair it's best if you-"

He opened the door, shutting off the rest of the argument. The bedroom was chaos, with bowls of water and bloody cloths strewn everywhere. Maids scurried around, in the process of replacing one set with another, fresh set. Anders knelt in the midst of all this, his back to the door and his hair escaping from its ponytail. Beyond him…

A slight shift in the mage's position displayed Maddy, seated on a low stool and clinging to a thick rope looped over a beam. Her face was shiny with sweat and her hair clung to her face and neck. At the sight of her husband, her weary face lit up.

"Alistair," she gasped.

Anders' head snapped around. "What are you doing in here?" Blue light hovered around his hands. "Someone get him out."

"No!" The sharp negation came from Maddy, and from that moment on wild brontos could not have ejected him. "Alistair, please_, help me_."

"Of course." Ignorant, terrified, but nevertheless willing, Alistair surged forward, knocking over a bowl of water in his path. "Anything."

Anders looked at Maddy, exasperated. "You want this big oaf in here, knocking stuff over? Fine, but he needs to keep quiet and out of the way."

"_Non_." Despite her obvious exhaustion, Maddy's chin took on a stubborn tilt. "This is not at all what I want. It is not _working_, Anders. You know this." She doubled over in sudden agony, hanging heavily on the rope, unable to continue until her contraction passed.

"What? What do you mean it's not…" Alistair couldn't even bring himself to say it, instead rolling his eyes towards the stressed mage.

Anders pushed his hair out of his face with his wrist. "Look, she's tiny and having twins and it's… not easy. But we can do this_, I_ can do this." Determination rang through his voice, but not conviction, not enough to convince Alistair at any rate.

When the contraction ended, Maddy dragged herself up on the end of the rope, one of the maids behind her, offering tentative support. "Alistair," she panted. "Please, take me outside."

"Outside." Alistair nodded. Outside, right, he could do outside. Delighted to have a simple instruction to follow, he moved in closer, carefully slipping one hand under her legs, while she wrapped tired arms around his neck with a relieved sigh.

"Alistair, please, think for a moment. Where are you going to take her?" Leliana's voice cut through the fog of purpose that enshrouded him.

"Outside." Hadn't she heard? Maddy wanted to go outside.

His wife's voice, the only one that mattered, murmured near his ear. "Take me to our tree, Alistair. The _Vhen'alath _is calling to me."

If Maddy wanted to go to her creepy tree, that was good enough for him. It certainly beat pacing helplessly. He set off, out of the bedroom door, fleetingly seeing Philippe's startled face and Zev's watchful one as he swept past, Maddy cradled against his chest. There was some kind of wetness on his shirt, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting Maddy to the tree. Leliana ran at his side, trying to pull Maddy's shift down, to cover her from the sight of the servants. Alistair supposed that kind of made sense, so he allowed it. He had a single mission, and provided no-one tried to stop him, anything else was alright.

Presumably the sight of the wild-eyed King, cradling his heavily pregnant wife, with blood running through her shift and down his shirt, was too intimidating to intercept, for no-one tried to get in his way. As they passed through the Orangery, Maddy tensed up, burying a muffled scream in his shoulder, and for the first time he faltered. She shook her head fiercely, and as soon as she could speak she urged him on.

"Don't… don't stop."

Alistair nodded, brushing Anders' half-heard protests, and Leliana's fussing, out of his way and soldiering on. Outside the Orangery, the first grey light turned the shadows grey, highlighting the massive outline of the impossible tree. The air was sharp and cold and he vaguely wished he'd brought Maddy a cloak, or at the very least a blanket, something to lie on. What had he been thinking?

He stood for a moment beneath the _Vhen'alath_, with Maddy still held in his arms, unsure how to proceed, and it was Zevran who came to his rescue.

"Here, _mio fratello_, use this." Zev's light, melodious voice was soothing after the sharp protests that had followed Alistair downstairs, and even more welcome was the short cape he stripped from his shoulder and laid on the grass for Maddy to lie upon. _Mio fratello_, _my brother_, he mused as he carefully laid his wife with her back against the trunk of her tree; he supposed Zevran was, at that. How strange, after everything that had happened.

The instant Maddy touched the tree some of the strain bled out of her face. She shifted her position clumsily, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he knelt beside her, until she was on her knees facing the tree, her hands against the trunk. She was nodding and whispering, and behind them he was vaguely aware that Zev was directing all except close friends and family out of earshot.

On her other side Philippe tentatively knelt, his face tense and anxious in the growing grey light. Anders stood with his hand on Maddy's head, frowning in concentration, but his magic was drowned in the sudden flood of taste and texture that burst over Alistair's tongue. Wild strawberries, just like when the _Vhen'alath_ had been planted. In the still air the tree began to rustle and move as though a high wind blew and in the same moment Maddy bore down, her hands pressed hard against the bark.

"Yes," she whispered when the contraction passed. "Again."

Again she bore down, while the branches bent and shook. Alistair watched in awe, turning his eyes to Anders for confirmation that this… this was alright.

The mage shrugged. "I don't know what- It's like nothing I've ever seen. She's not the only one talking to the tree. _They_ are, too, I can _feel_ the connection."

Maddy nodded in response to some silent communication and turned to Alistair. "Be ready." Her eyes were bright and confident, despite her pain and she seized his hands, showing him what she wanted. Obedient to her wishes, he crouched down low, his hands on Zevran's cloak below her.

An invisible, inaudible gale rocked the _Vhen'alath, _while Maddy bore down harder than ever, the strain distorting her face. A bright burst of wild magic hit the back of Alistair's throat and into his awed hands slid a bloody, slimy bundle.

A baby. It was a baby. "Oh, Maker, it's _blue_. It's not breathing"

"Quick, bring it to me!" He followed Anders' command numbly, watching as the mage cleared the airways and cut the cord with a neat swipe of hot magic, followed by a blue glow. A weak, thin cry rose up into the crisp, cold air. Beyond him Maddy was bearing down again, the _Vhen'alath _creaking under the strain of intangible winds. He heard Philippe's gasped imprecation, a prayer to the Maker; it was he who held out his hands for the second child, and Leliana who caught the exhausted Maddy as she stumbled to her hands and knees to expel everything else. Philippe brought the messy bundle to Anders, tears rolling down his face.

"Congratulations, mon frère." The words didn't mean anything. Alistair's brain had seized up under the enormity of what had just occurred. "You have two beautiful…" Philippe looked to Anders for help, and the mage looked up from cutting the second cord.

"Daughters. You have two perfect daughters." With a cheerful but tired smile, Anders went to check Maddy, to ensure that she was alright.

_Daughters. I have two_…

"You should get them indoors, yes?" Zevran, ever the voice of practicality, cut through his shock, and he looked up to see the elf's face impassive, his eyes telling a different story. "It is very chilly."

"Maker, yes." The sun was rising, an early spring sun, weak and cold. "Maddy, too. But first…" He felt a little foolish doing it, but manfully ignored both his audience and his own involuntary blush. Alistair turned to face the _Vhen'alath_, holding up his babe much as ancient man must have done, giving thanks to long-dead gods. "Thank you." The words were awkward, but they came from the heart. "Thank you."

Beside him he heard Philippe whisper, "_Merci beaucoup_."

For a moment Alistair would have sworn he felt the touch of an alien mind, the presence of a great love and joy that mingled with his own. Then it was gone, and Leliana was taking his daughter from his arms, so that he could carry his tired but jubilant wife into the palace and get all of them into a warm bed.

Once safe in his arms, Maddy snuggled against him. "_Je t'adore, mon mari_. You were _superbe_."

Alistair kissed her tangled hair, still stunned. It felt likely he would remain so for some time. Possibly until his daughters - _his daughters, Maker! - _were fully grown. "I love you, too, Maddy. I'm a lucky, lucky man."

_-oOo-_

Late spring sunshine flooded the orangery and Maddy hummed as she worked, planting up seedlings for the garden. In a cradle, carefully shaded from the sun, her babies snoozed in a warm spot, blessedly quiet for once. The twins rarely slept at the same time, and the opportunity to spend a little time with her fingers buried in soil was a rare and precious treat.

Noble ladies, inviting the Queen to their lunches and soirees, had finally grown accustomed to her turning up burdened with her daughters, the dry-nurse relegated to carrier of baby comforts. Maddy refused to hand her daughters over to others unless absolutely necessary. The chances of her and Alistair having other children was remote, given his Warden blood, and both parents did everything they could to spend as much time as possible with them. Princess Philippa and Princess Wynnie - each parent having chosen one name each - thrived under this treatment, and were rosy, happy babies who brought joy to their parents and well-wishers.

"Maddy, love, I've got a visitor you'll want to meet."

She frowned, reluctant to lose her pleasant hour among the plant pots, even as she turned to her husband. Alistair's air of suppressed excitement dispelled her irritation. Whoever this visitor was, it was apparently worthy of her time.

"Hush, quietly, or you'll wake the babies. Who is it, _mon mari_?"

A sister has arrived from the Val Royeaux Chantry. She's offering to join us here in the Ferelden Chantry and ensure that our side of the rift is documented for history." Maddy blinked stupidly at her husband, now practically dancing with enthusiasm. Nothing in this description suggested that she ought to be similarly thrilled, or that she might wish to give up her precious free time to meet the woman.

Maddy tried not to be cross about it, but Alistair knew better than this. A note of irritation bled into her voice. "This is good news, cheri, but surely not needful that I should meet her?" She waved a hand at her worktable. "I have all of these to pot up and you know how little time I-"

Alistair interrupted her, grinning like a loon. "Trust me, love, you'll want to meet her." Without even allowing his wife time to wipe the soil from her hands, he turned and beckoned to someone in the hall. "Come in, come in."

The woman who entered was not much more than a girl, blonde and slender, wearing the garb of a priestess. Maddy gaped a moment and then ran to her, disregarding her soil-encrusted fingernails and anything else other than the impossible, astonishing presence of this slim girl who smiled at her so shyly.

"Henriette. Oh, Henri, I can't believe you've come to us." This was the last remaining member of her family for whom she held affection. Everyone in the world that Maddy loved was now right here and her heart swelled with joy as she embraced her niece. Behind Henriette's shoulder, Alistair beamed, inordinately pleased with himself, as though he had personally arranged it. For all Maddy knew, he had. She tugged Henri by the hand, leading her to the cradle. "Come and meet your cousins."

_-oOo-_

**_AN: The second, and final, part of the epilogue is to follow next week. Thanks to all who took the trouble to review the Landsmeet chapter. I can't even begin to tell you what it means to receive such fantastic support._**

**_Karen xxx_**


	61. Epilogue: in the schoolroom

_WARNING: contains spoilers for DA2_

_-oOo-_

"As we saw in yesterday's lesson, the Landsmeet of 9:33 Dragon, and the events that surrounded it, were pivotal in a number of ways. In the years following the Fereldan Reformation there was a great deal of upheaval, with some noble families holding to the Old Faith, secreting an Andrastian sister on their estate and hosting furtive prayer meetings for those who held to the creed of the White Divine. King Alistair held to a policy of leniency as long as possible, turning a blind eye to what was occurring, but eventually he was forced to…"

A bee buzzed outside the window, providing a welcome distraction from the dreary march of history. Gertie loved bees, loved their round, furry, stripy little bodies, loved the way they oh-so-gently plundered flowers whilst doing no harm. She scratched at the pane, wishing she could feel if the bee was as fluffy as it looked.

"By the time his daughter Philippa took the throne, tensions were high, hostility against the stubborn Andrastians fed by the prospect of war with Orlais. The appointment of the Queen's twin sister Wynnie as Grand Cleric brought about a stronger bond between Chantry and State in Ferelden, and between them they…"

A beam of sunlight fell across the floor of the Palace schoolroom, motes of dust dancing in the slanting light. Gertie slumped in her seat, grumpy in the stuffy air. She wanted the wind on her face; she wanted to hear it shushing through the trees in the gardens. Across from her, she could see her two brothers furtively playing some game on a piece of paper under their desks, scratching splotchy symbols with their fountain pens.

One of the servant's children, alert and attentive compared to their royal counterparts, raised a hand and Brother Michael stopped pontificating long enough to acknowledge the question, with the pleased beam of a true scholar. Gertie_ liked_ their tutor, he knew about important things, like the proper way to build a kite and how to grow cress in a hanky. It was just a pity he _talked_ so much.

"Ser, what about Queen Madeleina." The boy speaking was quite new, and she couldn't remember his name. He was older than Gertie, with a shock of blond hair; the son of the new gardener and therefore worth cultivating. Gardeners were always interesting. "Is it true that she was a mage?"

Brother Michael perched on the edge of his desk down the front, obviously pleased by the question. "Scholars have been arguing about that for three hundred years and still haven't come to any kind of conclusion. Eye witness documents of her achievements abound, but many are claimed to be biased as they were written by confirmed royalists of the time. Propaganda set about by the Andrastian Chantry following the Reformation may also be dismissed, as it seems intended merely to discredit the Chantry of Ferelden. None of her children, nor any of the Theirin line since, have shown magical ability, which supports the view that she was not, in fact, a mage. What _is_ well documented is the extent of her achievements."

He slipped off the desk, and moved to unroll two maps, pinning them to the wall. One showed the Ferelden Empire as it was today, with territories and trade routes across three continents. The other, bearing the symbol of the Dragon Age in the corner, showed only the continent of Thedas, trade centres sparse and wildernesses unpopulated, with Orlais dominating a great deal of the map.

"The forests she created formed the basis of our Empire, causing a boom in shipbuilding and shipping which extended well beyond her lifetime. King Alistair's clever and timely contract with Orzammar may have been intended merely to provide Ferelden with some independence from the White Divine, but the distribution of lyrium - in a merchant fleet built with Queen Madeleina's timber - meant that a great many other products could also be exported, bringing great wealth to the nation."

Brother Michael's eyes fell upon the two princes, now struggling for control of the paper they held between them. "Prince Maryn, perhaps you can tell us of the other main importance of the boom in shipbuilding at that time?"

Gertie grinned to see her brother's discomfiture, as his brow furrowed beneath tumbled red-gold hair.

"Er…" Beneath the desk the scuffle continued in a somewhat subdued fashion, until their elder brother, Cadryc gained triumphant control of his prize and hissed something in Maryn's ear. Maryn's face cleared. "Travel?" Cadryc snorted, having won on both counts, as Brother Michael frowned.

"You would do better to listen to me than to your brother, Your Highness. No, _not _travel. The development of strong trade routes and a fine fleet was the basis of our eventual success in the Second Orlesian War, a war as much about religious differences as about politics. It was at sea where we proved our dominance," their tutor nodded to all three royal children, "during the reign of your great-grandfather Alistair II, Queen Philippa's son. It was at sea that we broke Orlais for the last time."

Gertie yawned with her mouth closed, a useful trick if you didn't want to be singled out in the schoolroom. Mother said that they should take an interest in history, especially when it was about family, but it was all so _boring_.

"To return to the Dragon Age, as I would like to finish up that period of history today, it is worth taking a look at those advisors who surrounded Good King Alistair. Yesterday I laid out for you the background of each of them, their influence over the wise King both during the Blight, afterwards, and throughout his golden reign of expansion and prosperity. We looked at some of the key texts of the era and established that, although it is not possible to know to what extent these shadowy figures influenced King Alistair, it is widely believed that he himself was the driving force behind all his pivotal actions."

The boys both perked up at mention of the Blight. _Those_ were the only interesting bits of history, with darkspawn and _dragons_. Cadryc and Maryn played at Blights a lot.

"You have studied the works of Leliana in music lessons, with Sister Juna, have you not? She was one of the most famous of the early musicians, and one of the last of the true bardic tradition."

One of the servant's children, Faldric, the Chamberlain's son nodded eagerly. He played the flute beautifully, and loved music. Everyone else slumped in their seats, uninterested.

"Very little of the life of Leliana is known, although her music provides clues. The period before she met the Hero of the Fifth Blight is shrouded in mystery, as is also her later life. It is known for certain that she remained at Court, acting as King Alistair's spymaster for at least a year following the Reformation, that post ultimately being taken over by Zevran Arainai, the Queen's sinister and controversial brother-in-law. Leliana's music from this period is filled with wistful, romantic yearning, and suggests that she suffered an unhappy love affair. Whether it was this that drove her to leave Ferelden is a matter for the scholars. What is known is that following the untimely death of Divine Beatrix III in 9:34 Dragon, and the ascension of Divine Justinia V, Leliana left the court of Ferelden for an unknown destination. The next time history finds her is in the famed chronicles of Varric, who states that the Champion of Kirkwall met one Sister Nightingale in the Kirkwall Chantry, and that she introduced herself as Leliana." Brother Michael coughed modestly. "For those interested, I have myself written a treatise on the fascinating subject of her life during this period, speculating upon whether she re-entered the Chantry in good faith, or as a spy for the Ferelden Crown."

Spying sounded like a fun game. Maybe she could convince Cadryc and Maryn to play spies later. Unfortunately, they had an irritating tendency to reject her games just because she was a _girl_ and younger than them.

"The life of Warden Anders is well-documented, his place in history cemented by one lamentable action. During his lifetime he wrote several treatises on the treatment of mages, and history paints him as a rebellious, revolutionary figure. The carefully preserved correspondence of King Alistair contains a letter of great interest, addressed to Arl Nathaniel Howe, then Warden Commander of Ferelden, stating that Anders had fled the Court after what King Alistair candidly refers to as a 'blazing row' concerning King Alistair's moderate stance on Chantry and Circle practices. Anders - more commonly known to history as the Destroyer due to his cataclysmic actions in Kirkwall - took exception to King Alistair's rigorous requirements for the training of mages, and his absolute refusal to allow them free movement in the community unless they passed a series of stringent tests."

A butterfly fluttered past and Gertie craned her neck to follow its progress. As it dipped and rose on a path of its own, heading for the gardens, she yearned to follow it. The Tree was calling to her, promising warm, fragrant shade and a refuge from dry, dusty facts. She squinted at the sun. Lessons were nearly over.

"The period between Anders' disappearance from Court and his re-appearance shortly afterwards in Kirkwall is murky and subject to widespread speculation. The circumstances surrounding his supposedly demonic contract with the spirit known as Justice are the stuff of myth and legend; the results of his actions, however, are historic fact. By Dragon 9:40 only the Ferelden Circle remained stable, and mages from all over the known world arrived in droves seeking sanctuary. This massive influx of educated minds ultimately brought about the formation of the University of Ferelden, the finest in the known world, where today mages and non-mages study side by side."

Brother Michael checked the clock. As though _everyone _in the room wasn't aware of the time _every minute_.

"Lastly, we have just enough time remaining to mention the legacy of Zevran Arainai, brother-in-law to Queen Madeleina. We discussed yesterday his origins: he was a sinister Antivan assassin, hired originally by the Usurper Loghain Mac Tir to kill Alistair Theirin, illegitimate son of King Maric. Zevran Arainai was ignominiously defeated in the encounter and his life spared.

Several children nodded, sitting up a bit in their seats. They'd enjoyed hearing about someone who sounded so dangerous and exciting.

"How he moved from such an ignoble position to one of the most powerful men in Ferelden is not clear. It is known that he offered his service to the Hero of the Fifth Blight, Melissa Cousland, and that he served her up to and including facing the Archdemon."

You could have heard a pin drop at this point. A famous assassin against a demonic dragon? In Gertie's mind, reflected in most of the faces in the room, history didn't get much better than that.

"He is believed to have left Ferelden after this. History has nothing further to say about him until he enters King Alistair's service sometime the following year under the patronage of Philippe de Ghislain, Queen Madeleina's brother. How he inveigled himself into Prince Philippe's good graces is not known, but their association resulted in a political incident of monumental proportions."

Brother Michael looked around his class, but they had all slumped again, bored now no-one was being assassinated or fighting dragons. His next statement, quietly made with all the drama of a bombshell, made little impact upon them.

"They married."

Brother Michael perched on the edge of his desk. "It was not the first interspecies marriage the Chantry had performed by any means. Many were done, on the quiet. But elves were, at that point in history, considered second-class citizens, largely segregated and denied any but the most menial jobs. The marriage of the Queen's brother to an elf rocked the foundations of the class system. Even the fact that they were both men - fairly unusual at the time, and considered rather shocking - was eclipsed. The timing of the incident was, in political terms, incredibly important. King Alistair had already granted a number of concessions to the elves, improving conditions in the Alienage and offering them positions as well-paid craftsmen. Then, the very day after Philippe de Ghislain married Zevran Arainai in a hurried, private ceremony right here in the palace, the Elven Alienages played their pivotal role in changing Ferelden history at the Landsmeet of 9:33 Dragon. The whole thing screamed conspiracy, and the furious nobility reacted incautiously in the aftermath of the Landsmeet, sending mercenaries to punish the inhabitants of the Denerim Alienage. Their timing was unfortunate, as they arrived just when a large group of armed elves were returning from their shift as dock guards. The mercenaries, not expecting any resistance, were taken by surprise, and wiped out to a man."

Gertie looked at the clock for the hundredth time: just a couple of more minutes until freedom.

"When King Alistair sent troops to arrest the nobles behind the attack, two notable figures led them: Zevran Arainai, and Kallian Tabris, the Queen's elven bodyguard. The King couldn't have made a stronger statement if he'd screamed it from the rooftops, and it marked the beginning of the end for elven segregation, although the battle for elven rights in Ferelden was long and hard-fought over several generations."

Brother Michael looked at the clock and began to gather his papers. "We'll look in more detail at both the Reformation and Elven Integration in history class next week. Don't forget that tomorrow there will be a test on Magical Theory. Class dismissed."

_-oOo-_

Gertie dashed out of the schoolroom, scampered down the stairs and burst through the Orangery into the open air. Flowers nodded in the breeze, greeting her with their gentle beauty. She took off her shoes and stockings, toes digging into the grass, feeling the soil stir beneath her feet. But, nice though this was, it was the Tree that called to her most strongly, the wild, familiar song of nature that she had heard for as long as she could remember. The Family Tree it was called, and all the luck of the Theirin line was attributed to its magic, although the wood and brass plaque buried in the grass at the base of its trunk, stating when it was planted and by whom, gave it a fancier name in a strange, lost tongue: _Vhen'alath._

The bark was rough against the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet as she scrambled up the trunk. This was the easiest tree in the whole palace gardens to climb, the knotholes and branches always exactly where she needed them to be, welcoming her into the friendly, leafy shade as she settled comfortably in the crook of its branches.

Perfect.

In the distance she could hear her brothers squabbling over something or other, but that was just background buzz, less important than the wind sighing through the leaves, the whirr of insects about their business, and the whole delightful pageant of nature that assailed her with scents and sounds, assuring her that she was loved.

The wind dropped, leaving the shady spot she sat in lovely and warm, like a soft blanket of air. Gertie stretched out, leaning her head on a branch, absolutely safe and secure in this, her favourite place in the whole world. The murmured song of the Tree lulled her into a quiet place near sleep, whispering secrets that she couldn't quite catch.

In this place, between sleep and waking, she could feel every tree in the gardens, linked together by a web of energy like a string of fairy lights at a party. Mentally she reached out to them, and each light grew brighter at her touch, glowing with life, feeding off an energy she barely realised she had, their trunks growing stronger, their leaves more lush. Their joy and love cradled her as surely as the branches of the Tree and she drifted further into sleep, into the place where she was a part of that web of energy.

The dream that came to her was not a new one, the people in it as familiar as her own family. While on one level she walked in the Fade, feeling the real trees around her, so much more vibrant than those in the gardens, on another she still slept in the Tree. Beneath its shade strolled a lady and a gentleman, in strange old-fashioned clothing. When they stopped to kiss, the green eyes the lady turned up to him were the exact green of Gertie's daddy's eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose just like Gertie's own.

The head that bent to kiss his lady was red-gold, the same shade as her brother Maryn's, his smile was nice and his hazel eyes warm with love. Gertie liked the lady and gentleman, and more importantly the Tree liked them, too. The Tree was never wrong about things like that.

When they had finished kissing the lady spoke, her accent strange and her words foreign and archaic. Gertie learnt Orlesian, among several other languages and this was almost, but not quite Orlesian.

"_Je t'adore, mon mari_." Maddy looked up at her husband, her identity well-known to the _Vhen'alath,_ even if not to the child who slept so soundly in its branches. "I love you."

Alistair gazed down at her, his eyes filled with love and devotion. "And I, you." He brushed a rebellious tendril of curly, brown hair from her face and smiled into her eyes. "Maker's breath, I'm a lucky man."

_-oOo-_

_AN: that's it, the final part! After an entire year, Trouble and Strife is complete. I hope you all enjoyed this, my very first attempt at writing anything other than rp plot and adventures. I learnt a lot, and your feedback was invaluable. If you have any overarching criticisms, now would be the time to level them. For instance, I'm very aware that, due to inexperience, I began the Chantry plot a little late: in my opinion it should have been ongoing all the time our heroes were in Orlais. If this was a novel, rather than a periodic publication, I would have gone back and changed it._

_I need a break, to mould my brain into some kind of order (and to progress Secret Service, my smutfic), and then I shall be starting a new story, Virtue and Vice, set in the murky world of Antivan politics. It you are interested in reading it, then an Author Alert will ensure that you receive the first chapter to your inbox. For now, thank you so much for remaining with me for such a long fic, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did._

_Regards, Karen xxxx_


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